


Coffee Shop Therapy

by Jeanisnotawinchester (theanonymousj)



Series: Endless Screaming into the Void of Winterfalcon [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Aromantic, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Kidnapping, M/M, No Smut, Queerplatonic Relationships, Russian Mafia, Sign Language, Violence, but only SOME, ish, probs some otherstuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 22,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7218433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theanonymousj/pseuds/Jeanisnotawinchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a tumblr prompt (thank you winterfalcuns) about Bucky being in a mob and keeping Sam a secret, until he gets kidnapped and then shit goes down. Kind of wandered a little from that, but you get the picture. Not the worst thing I've written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't speak Russian, I have never studied the Bratva until writing this, and the medical correctness in this fic has not been moderated by a doctor. Just role with it and accept that I tried. I'll put warnings in the notes for chapters with violence; I don't think it's that bad but idk u may disagree.

New York was a great place to sell coffee. The banks meant no one ever stopped working, even in the small hours of the morning, when the relentless traffic became a little more bearable and the twenty–something city dwellers came out to drink away their rent money and pass out on the sidewalk in only the skimpiest of outfits. In daylight hours men and women flooded the cafe in their fitted suits with their briefcases and blue tooth headsets, and high schoolers bunking off gym class poured their petty cash onto the counter for the new caramel-toffee–chocolate–sundae Frappuccino. Whatever the time of day or time of year, people wanted their iced coffees and limited edition fruit teas and Sam Wilson was the man who sold it to them. Well, one of the team. But his aspirations didn’t reach beyond _this_. He was content working in Fury Cafe, receiving a steady salary that paid for his reasonable apartment and greeting his customers with a friendly face.

There were only two long time workers in the cafe, and the other was a guy called Clint. He was older than Sam, and he had a habit of running his coffee powder dusted hands through his hair which turned the greying blonde a darker colour. He’d worked there for years apparently, and was equally happy with his role there. Maybe there was a reason they’d ended up across the hall from one another, and maybe there was a reason that Clint’s labrador Lucky curled up in his lap when they had movie nights together. They both had the same aspirations in life and as far as they were concerned; they’d made it.

Sam wiped down the table tops as Clint swept the floor. A couple in the corner were the only customers of the hour, and on a Wednesday night only one of them really needed to stay and supervise the exhausted student (who naturally was napping in the backroom during the quiet hour).

Sam tapped his friend’s shoulder and gave him a soft smile.

 _‘Go home. I’ve got this.’_ He signed.

Clint thanked him and left. The couple laughed again as Sam wiped down the last table and put the mop and rag in the back room. The student (Kirsty? Karen? Katie?) was drooling over the tatty sofa. That was fine; he quite liked holding the fort alone when it wasn’t too busy. When he came back out of the backroom the woman had left, and the man was pulling cash from his wallet. He looked much less relaxed than he had done with the ginger woman.

“Want the bill?”

The man looked up at him and gave a brief smile, then paused and considered his wallet. “Not really. I don’t have anywhere I have to be, but now Nat’s gone…”

Sam leant on the table and gave him a lazy smile, taking in his unusually long hair and cold blue eyes. ‘Pretty face,’ he mused. “You’re welcome to stay. Think of it as meditation.”

He earned a half laugh from the customer and a shrug, “you know what, I’ll take you up on that. Work’s been pretty stressful this week.”

“I wouldn’t know the feeling. Can I get you anything?”

Again, a little laugh. “Just... just a strong black coffee please. As bland as it comes.”

He straightened up and gave a mocking salute, “coming right up.”

The sounds of the coffee machines were soothing to Sam. They sounded like home to him, and the feeling of home was something important to him – as in his mum hauled them from one place to another for years, so he learnt to call something he couldn’t live in ‘home.’ All coffee shops were all home to him. Comfy chairs, trashy magazines, and a decent mug of coffee was all you needed to feel complete – and this lonely customer was about to understand the wonderful thing Sam liked to call ‘coffee shop therapy’ too.

He gently lay the saucer and cup in front of the man, pushing a couple of extra biscuits on the side. The man sprang back into life and dug his wallet out again, “how much do I owe you?”

A quick shake of his hands and laugh caught him off guard, “not a cent, it’s on me.”

“I really can’t let you-“

“But you can, and you will. Get comfy, drink up, and take in the city.”


	2. Chapter 2

Around eleven Sam hung up his apron and left the shop to Kathleen (?) and another student whose name he couldn’t begin to guess, and leisurely strolled down the road to his block of flats. The lobby was small and looked like crap, but by the time you climbed the stairs to the fourth floor it was decent enough. His apartment was really very adequate, but he turned left and headed into Clint’s instead. Lucky bounded up to him, tongue lolling out of his jaws and dog tags jingling with his every step. Naturally he got on the floor to greet his four legged friend as Clint appeared at the end of the hall.

_‘Movie night then?’_

Sam nodded, which Lucky to as a signal to race through to the lounge and take up the whole couch before they even had the chance. Clint enjoyed their film nights because Sam had never so much as mentioned the subtitles. He’d been through a million boyfriends and girlfriends who’d whined about the subtitles and having to learn to sign, and who’d have thought that guy across the hall just happened to know a bit of ASL and didn’t care about the subtitles, and didn’t mind being his ears when they ventured further than the grocery store.

But all this worked well in Sam’s favour too. He was a war veteran after all, and loud noises were something he was incredibly sensitive to. In the cafe, the chatter and machines were something from his childhood that brought back good memories, but elsewhere he couldn’t bear it. So Clint’s silence was wonderful for him, and he never had to turn the volume up louder than he wanted because Clint didn’t need it anyway. They were definitely somewhat of a team.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day they took their break together and sat in the window seats to drink their morning coffees. They discussed nothing at all and we’re quite content just to sit opposite each other and watch the cars rush by. One of the cars stopped rushing though, a shiny black SUV with tinted windows. Clint laughed quietly, _‘maybe the CIA want a coffee.’_

Three men got out the vehicle, but only one entered the cafe. His eyes scanned around the room and landed on Clint and Sam. The heavy clunk of his thick soled boots matched his bald head and equally thick neck. He reached the table and slammed his hands heavily into it, and some of Sam’s coffee spilt across the table.

“You seen a guy in here goes by the name of Barnes?”

They glanced at each other and Sam caught enough in Clint’s glance to know that the heavy, gangster-like accent was making lip reading a challenge for him.

“Not a lot of the customers really tell us their names.”

A heavy sigh and the man pulled a gun from a hidden holster and held it flat against the table.

“I’ll say again, a man named Barnes. You know him or don’t you?”

Somewhat alarmed San managed to stutter out “We don’t know a Barnes, alright. We’d tell you if you did.”

“Your partner here is awful quiet. He know something you don’t?”

“He’s deaf. He doesn’t know what we’re saying.”

The man straightened up and exchanged the gun for a white business card, “If a Barnes comes calling, you ring this number.”

Sam watched the man leave as if he did that every day. The three beefcakes of men piled back in the car which sped away from the curb.

_‘Take a few deep breaths Sam, you look pretty shaken up.’_

_‘And you’re not?’_

_‘Back in my prime I was a bare knuckle boxer. Takes a lot more to scare me.’_

Sam let out a breathy laugh, trying to imagine Clint doing such a thing.

_‘I thought you said you were an Olympic skier and an alligator wrestler.’_

_‘Yeah, that too.’_

The rest of the day passed without any shady situations and gun point interrogation, for which Sam was most thankful. Clint, however, couldn’t wait to tell Lucky all about it.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam wasn’t sure who in their right mind would be out in torrential rain in just a jacket and a baseball cap at two on a Tuesday morning, but someone was because he ran straight into the cafe ;bringing in the weather with him. He pulled of his cap and jacket and slicked the long, chocolate hair back so he could wipe the water from his eyes. It took Sam’s memory a moment to catch onto the image in front of him, but he was that guy from the other day with the ginger girl. He rolled his eyes at himself, ‘not such a catchy nickname.’

He grabbed a clean towel and walked up to the returning customer with a grin on his face, “Not ideal weather for a walk, hey?”

The closer he got, the more he realised the sheer size of the man; even if there wasn’t much between them in height, the muscle mass on the guy was beyond impressive and bordered on superhuman. The man looked up and a smile broke on his face, “It’s you again.”

“Yeah it’s me. I work here.” He pushed the towel into his hands, “let me take your jacket and hat to the backroom. I’ll dry them out for you.”

“Thanks”

After slinging the sodden clothes over the heater, he made up two coffees and sat down with the still unnamed customer. He got another grateful ‘thanks’ out of the man, who took the mug and sat back in his seat. With the jacket removed, the man’s left arm was exposed as one made from solid metal rather than skin and bone, a large red star set into the shoulder. Sam had plenty of old army friends with prosthetics, but he’d not seen any that were quite so impressive as that addition.

“Oh, sorry about my arm. I usually cover it up.”

“No don’t worry, it’s just...”

“Yeah. It’s a custom piece.”

Sam took a sip of his coffee, imagining the sheer cost of that arm being well above his pay grade. The silver plating shifted in such a way the arm was almost real, and the bulges in it mimicked the muscle in his right arm which honestly Sam just found damn impressive. He took a long sip of his coffee and brought his attention off the arm and back to the man.

“So what are you doing out in the rain stupid o’clock in the morning?”

The man hesitated, obviously thinking of an answer that wasn’t even close to the truth. Sam saw the moment his snarky answer clicked into place before the words even began to roll of his tongue, “You’re asking for my life story and I don’t even know your name.”

“Well that’s fair. I’m Sam Wilson.”

“Sam,” the perfectly common name sounded odd when he considered it, the slight European notes in his accent more pronounced when faced with a proper noun, “I’m Bucky.”

“Bucky? For someone with an American name, you don’t sound all that American.”

The answer to his non-question was a cryptic laugh and a fleeting change of subject, “how come this place is open right now?”

“The owner likes it open at all times. He comes in at four am sometimes just to sit and enjoy the coffee. He understands coffee shop therapy and wants to share that with New York. He’s a big believer in helping people.”

Bucky seemed to pause to stare into the coffee and let his mind search for the answers to his problems in the dark liquid, “and you understand it too?”

“Sure I do. I’ve been working here nearly eight years now. Coffee shops are my home.”

That made Bucky laugh. Not in a cruel way, it just seemed pretty odd to him. “So what exactly is this coffee shop therapy?”

No one had ever actually asked him that. He gathered his life experiences of coffee shops to try and grapple at an answer. He thought of Clint, happily serving warm beverages for more than twenty years. He thought of the owner, Fury, a man who seemed set on world peace via a good cup of coffee.

“It’s... it’s the culture of coffee, I think. It’s how far that coffee bean has travelled just to arrive in a cup in your hands; the way the world has come together just to give you a little gift. And the experience of the coffee shop itself is important too. You need big, comfy chairs you can sink into and tiny tables for one next to the wall so you can charge your laptop. If you come in with your friends you can have a proper catch up, but getting a coffee alone isn’t a bad thing either because you’re taking time out for yourself. You’re sharing a space with people who’ve all come for a good time and a good coffee. There’s something special about that. Even in chain stores it’s there: that’s how special it is.”

There was a short silence after that as Bucky muttered, “I’ve never thought of it like that before...”

Now it was Sam’s turn to smile as he sank into the arm chair and listened to the downpour outside. He could see Bucky turning Sam’s beliefs over in his head, realising that he was right about it all; coffee shops were sanctuaries.

Sam broke the gentle silence a while later, still watching the rain splashing in the puddles on the pavement, “So what do you do?”

“Hmm?” The absent minded ask for a repeat of the question was a tell-tale sign that Bucky was deep in thought, proof of Sam’s theory.

“Your job. What is it?”

“Oh, it’s...” He shifted a little in his seat and hesitated on the answer, “it’s complicated. I’m a kind of manager I guess, nothing special. The girl I was with the other day is my secretary.”

Sam didn’t notice how vague the answer was in the slightest, “Oh I assumed she was your girlfriend.”

Bucky seemed to relax a bit and laughed it off, “No, not at all. We’ve been working together a long time is all. She’s got someone anyway.”

“And you?”

“No I’m single.”

“What really? With a pretty face like yours?”

Bucky blushed slightly and his gaze became distracted. Sam couldn’t help but find it a little cute – he hadn’t meant anything by it.

“I don’t think I have time to meet a girl and treat her right. The only women really see are Nat and the others that work for me, and I wouldn’t date a colleague. What about you?”

“Oh I’m... complicated I guess. I don’t really do relationships. I don’t really have much of an interest in sex or fluffy romantic stuff. I just don’t feel that way about people.”

He didn’t like just coming out to apparently straight people. He didn’t usually come out to gay people either because he’d had some negative responses in the past. So he phrased it like being asexual and aromantic wasn’t a big deal to him or anyone else. Using labels just caused problems. Bucky nodded and went back to watching the rain, leaving Sam grateful he didn’t make any jokes about his lack of libido.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ironically I don't even like coffee...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence warning.

It was late in the afternoon of the following day when Sam was back on shift. Clint saw the SUV pull up again and he walked towards the counter to warn Sam. The man burst in with his gun on full display and a grim look on his face.

“Tell me where Barnes is or I’ll fucking shoot.”

Clint hadn’t quite reached the counter and didn’t hear the threat. Apparently the man felt ignored and fired.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood warning and stuff

Clint had never been shot before, but as he lay on the floor of Fury Cafe he decided never to get a shot again. He wasn’t quite sure where he’d been shot, but it was somewhere in his middle and he could tell because it felt like he was on fire. Someone might as well have replaced his organs with molten lava that was burning away at his flesh. He wasn’t sure if he was screaming or not; he couldn’t actually tell. He couldn’t feel anything beyond the pain but he was fairly sure Sam was kneeling over him and trying to help. Everything was happening so fast and so slowly, and he felt like he could hear ringing in his ears, which didn’t seem quite right. His vision got better briefly and the burning sensation died enough for him to try and sit up. He could feel his wet, sticky blood pooling on his stomach, but on actually trying to move he experienced a huge wave of pain and his vision dissolved into black. He didn’t quite come back round after that.

Outside of Clint’s head, Sam had vaulted the counter the second the bullet was fired and dropped to his knees immediately. Clint was on his front and the entry wound was under his ribcage, but the bloodied floor told Sam that the exit wound wasn’t pretty. The man left quickly as a shaking woman called for an ambulance amid the screams of the customers as they went diving under the tables for cover. By the time Clint was on his back, Sam had his apron off and pressed against his friend’s wound to stem the bleeding. In his head he was seeing his friends being gunned down and watching them writhe under his grip as their blood spilt over his hands, and the memories were only cut up by Clint, semi-conscious and bleeding out on the floor of the cafe. Sam found himself speaking to him, begging him to stay with him and promising it would all be fine – but the speech was more for his benefit than Clint’s.

The ambulance rushed at full speed to the hospital, and the paramedics rushed Clint straight into theatre. Sam was left outside the room, shaking and crying and covered in cold blood. He sat on a cheap looking chair and tried to steady his breathing, but the streaks of red across his jeans and polo shirt pulled him back onto the nightmares he wished he’d left behind on Afghanistan.

It was hours later, when a surgeon appeared in the door way, when Sam had finally calmed himself down. He’d stopped the relentless flashbacks and his breathing was fairly normal – well until the surgeon showed up it had been. The blue-green scrubs she wore were dirtied with same blood Sam’s clothes were. He felt his heart leap in his chest, preparing himself for the worst.

“It’s hard to say yet how he’ll come out of this; he’s lost a lot of blood and his insides aren’t pretty. That said, he’s alive and breathing. No vital organs were damaged beyond repair aside from one of his kidneys, his spine is intact even if his ribs are fractured in places, and we’ve managed to stitch him up. I’d say he’s probably going to be just fine, but not any time soon.”

Sam breathed a massive sigh of relief and collapsed into the armchair with his head in his hands. After a few deep breaths he managed to speak to the surgeon. “Thank you. Really, thank you. Can I see him now?”

The surgeon pulled her hair from the cap and leant on the door frame. “He’s gonna be unconscious for a while yet, but sure. Is there anyone we should contact? “

“He’s never mentioned a family, and I’m sort of his only friend.”

The surgeon offered him a gentle smile and nodded, “then come right this way.”


	7. Chapter 7

Fury let Sam have the week off. He spent a lot of it by Clint’s bedside and keeping Lucky company. Clint wasn’t waking up and he’d been back into the theatre twice, but the surgeons kept assuring Sam that he’d made it through the hardest part, do he’d live to see another day.

Sitting with Clint was hard. They weren’t family, just two guys who worked together and watched films on nights off. He couldn’t talk to him because he’d never spoken to Clint in his life, and signing to a man whose eyes are closed seemed silly. But no one else visited him, so he sat there for the sake of it. Oftentimes the police would arrive with more probing questions about the shooter, and pictures of who he might be. Sam wished they’d just leave him be.

When he wasn’t with Clint he was with Lucky. He let Lucky stay in his apartment, and took him for walks to his favourite park. It was hard, trying to explain to Lucky what had happened to Clint. The poor dog seemed to think Clint had just up and left him, no matter how many times Sam promised that that wasn’t the case. At the end of the week, he was speaking to himself just to remind himself that Lucky couldn’t speak English.

It was a week on from the incident that Clint woke up. Sam was there, a book open in front of him but he wasn’t reading it. He put it down as soon as he saw Clint’s eyes flicker open, because Clint was bound to be confused and he needed to know that Sam was there for him. When he was awake enough Sam tried to sign an explanation for what had happened, but he lacked the vocabulary to properly describe what had conspired while Clint had been out of it, and he also lacked the peace of mind to communicate in a coherent manner. They managed though, as they always did, to say what needed to be said before carrying on with their lives.


	8. Chapter 8

Clint was to remain in hospital for at least another week, so Sam decided to head home and check on Lucky. He walked from the hospital, ignoring the light rain that slowly turned his light grey sweater into a charcoal one. He was stuck between the relief that Clint had come around and the continuing shock of the whole ordeal. His best and only friend had been almost killed on the floor of the one place he dared to call home, and he felt like he could see the bloody mess on the floor as he passed the shop, despite Fury himself coming in to make sure it was properly cleaned up. He took his time climbing the stairs, digging up the motivation to reach his floor by picturing Clint two steps ahead of him, smelling strongly of coffee and cheap washing powder.

He reached his floor and froze. Bucky was outside his door, twirling a knife around his metal fingers with a scary calmness about his manner. He looked up sharply hearing Sam approach and slid the knife into its sheath strapped to his thigh. Sam stopped a fair few metres away from him, seriously worried he was about to get stabbed.

“The man who shot your friend, was he a big balding guy?”

Sam blinked and stared at the man blocking him off from his apartment, “uh... yeah...”

“What did he want Sam? He came in before that, didn’t he? What did he want from you?”

The urgency in his voice and his aggressive stance was screwing with Sam’s troubled mind and giving him a headache just thinking about how this guy could be involved. “He asked after some guy called Barnes.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath and definitely wasn’t English and grabbed his phone. He indicated that Sam should go to his apartment, which he did. But he could hear Bucky on the phone outside his door, talking quickly in what was probably Russian. He could hear him sat on the other wide of the door hours after their conversation. He was pretty sure it was Bucky finally leaving at five am that woke him that morning.

He also blamed the shady looking guy who stayed in the cafe through Sam’s entire eight hour shift on Bucky too, and the unfamiliar cleaning lady vacuuming the lobby when he finished up at work.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam had never been stalked as far as he knew, but he was pretty sure this was what it felt like. There was a blonde woman he’d never seen before who followed him everywhere he went. She moved into the building after two weeks of casually tailing Sam to work and the grocery store – even to see Clint in the hospital. She seemed friendly when she introduced herself as Sharon, even more amiable when she made him cookies and brought round a bone for Lucky (who decided she was the best thing in the world after that). No doubt about it: Sharon was a wonderful woman. She was also stalking Sam however, which was a problem.

She seemed to know Sam knew she was always there. After a while, she even acknowledged his presence as they passed in the hospital or met in the street. And Sam for the life of him couldn’t figure out what her purpose was, except that it was probably Bucky’s fault. Everything was Bucky’s fault since that night, and he hadn’t seen him since.

It was after a trip to see Clint, who was almost ready to come home, that he strolled into work and saw his opportunity to investigate. Sharon was there already, drinking a mug of specialist hot chocolate and working her way through a slice of Victoria sponge. And Nat walled in. At least, he was pretty sure that was her name – the red head who’d been with Bucky on the day they first met. He watched her greet Sharon, sit down and show her something in a notebook. He watched them very carefully and waited for Nat to get up and head for the bathroom; much easier to go after a lone wolf than a pack.

The cafe bathroom had four stalls, and was unisex due to the lack of space (although Sam liked it better that way, and so did a plentiful amount of their gender non-conforming customers). He had a key for the door and followed Nat, locking them in together and the rest of the world out. She turned and stared him down, apparently waiting for an explanation. Sam wasn’t going to give her one.

“You’re Nat, right? Bucky’s friend?”

“Yeah.”

“And you know Sharon out there?”

“Yeah, I know Sharon.”

“We’ll do you know why she’s stalking me?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

Sam had honestly expected her to be a bit more ruffled by his questions, but he had decided that he needed answers and wasn’t going to just give in now.

“Because I’m asking you.”

She stared at him blankly, then turned toward the mirrors and began to reapply her lipstick, “neither of us are at liberty to give you any answers. You’d be better off just speaking to the boss.”

“Who’s the boss?”

She gave him a sideways look that denoted he was missing the obvious. He still didn’t see what he was missing.

“The Soldier. The Winter Soldier?”

The name rang no bells and obviously it showed on his face how lost he was. Nat stopped doing her make-up and gave him her full attention.

“Mr. Barnes. James Barnes. You were with him just the other day.”

“Mr. Barnes is responsible for my friend getting shot-“

“Mr. Barnes is... Bucky. Don’t tell him I called him that, he’d have my head.”

“Bucky is... Bucky is Mr. Barnes.” Sam took a deep breath in and swallowed he information, “my friend got shot because of him. He sent Sharon to follow me around to make sure it didn’t happen to me.”

“Well now you don’t have to speak to him.”

Well he had his answers. So he guessed for that reason he didn’t need to see him. He opened his mouth to ask to see him anyway, but Nat cut him off with her hand, “you can’t contact him unless you’ve got his number.”

“Then you do it for me.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t. Now let me out or I’ll bust the door down.”

He planted himself firmly in front of the door, more than six foot and still wielding his considerable muscle mass from his army days, “Not gonna happen.”

“Believe it or not, I have more important people to see today sunshine.”

“I won’t move until you call him.”

He saw Nat run at him and the next thing he knew he was on the floor. He sat up just enough to see her kick through the lock and walk through the broken door like nothing had happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw if you see any mistakes or formatting errors, do tell me. I wrote this on my phone and I'm editing on a shifty, problematic tablet. I'm doing my best but please tell me if I miss something.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New disclaimer: I know about seven words in sign language and it's BSL not ASL cos I'm not American, so don't judge if they say something impossible. /I tried/

_‘She kicked through the entire door?’_

Sam laughed and nodded as they waited for the nurse to fetch a wheel chair, _‘yeah. And I just watched her leave. I don’t know what’s going on but I seem to just attract dangerous people at the moment.’_

_‘I’ll say.’_

They both laughed as Clint pointed to his wound. Sam knew too many people who were awkward about where they’d been shot, but Clint was handling it really well – although Clint had always been pretty odd, so Sam felt like he should have expected that. He kept telling Sam how he’d be picking up people left, right, and centre with his ‘cool new scar,’ and how he could make up dramatic stories of how he leapt in front of the gunman to save a customer’s life. All his own problems aside, he was also handling the crazy shit in Sam’s life like it happened every day too, which really helped Sam to get past the sheer trauma of being surrounded by people who seemed intent on making his life a living hell – he’d seen enough of hell for a lifetime.

Sam helped Clint into the wheelchair, watching him try to hide his wince as he got comfortable. It was kind of awkward pushing him around, because they couldn’t talk to each other like this. They signed him out of the hospital, and Clint took the bill without looking at it. Sam knew there was absolutely no way he’d be able to pay that without taking out a huge loan and that just wasn’t something they could joke about.

They returned to the apartment building together, and deciding that it would be best if Clint wasn’t alone for too long that evening, agreed to have dinner and movie in the comfort of Clint’s apartment. He pushed the chair up to the dining table and prepared a proper meal to celebrate Clint coming home. A party for just the two of them – and Lucky, who sat faithfully by Clint with his head in his lap, relieved to have him back.

_‘So if this Nat didn’t get a hold of Bucky, how did you get him?’_

_‘I didn’t. I can’t contact him.’_

_‘And what did you say she called him again?’_

_‘James Barnes. And she called him the Winter Soldier too.’_

_‘What’s a Winter Soldier?’_

_‘I Googled it and apparently he’s some assassin. I don’t buy that he’s an assassin though.’_

And that was shitty. He wanted Bucky to apologise to Clint for what had happened to him, or at least send him a get well soon card. He wanted to get a hold of him for other reasons too, but just that would be enough-

There was a knock at the door. Clint reacted just as fast as Sam did thanks to Lucky’s sudden interest in the far end of the room. Sam gave Clint a look of confusion before getting to his feet and crossing the room. Lucky stayed by Clint.

He opened the door to Bucky, then immediately moved to shut it. Bucky put his hand in the way and pried it open. “Sam, let me –“

“No. Not now. You lied to me about who you were and now my friend has a hole in his stomach and the lady from the floor above me is stalking me. I’m just trying to have a nice evening with Clint and Lucky, I really don’t need to see you right now.”

“Sam-“

“I said no. Are you going to break my door down as well or will you just go?”

Bucky sighed heavily, a real sadness about him that almost had Sam feeling bad for him. “At least let me apologise to Mr. Barton then.”

He hesitated a long time before he nodded and pulled the door wide enough for him to come in. Clint looked pretty confused as to why he was suddenly in their apartment, but Sam nodded reassuringly, inclined in the mildest sense to give Bucky a chance.

“I’m deeply sorry for what happened to you Mr. Barton and I hope you recover quickly and fully.”

Sam signed what he was saying as best he could, struggling recall what ‘recover’ was.

_‘Tell him I said thanks and fuck you.’_

_‘If he’s really an assassin we probably shouldn’t mention the fuck you thing.’_

_‘Well thank him. But aggressively.’_

Sam rolled his eyes and turned back to Bucky, “He says thanks.”

“Would he like me to pay his hospital bill for him?”

“He doesn’t fucking need you to pay his bills.”

“I’d like to pay them-“

“We don’t need you screwing around with our lives. Actually, I’d like you to just leave.”

Clint threw a fork at him to get his attention, the prongs uncomfortably sharp against his skin but not deadly enough to cut him, _‘what’s going on?’_

_‘He says he wants to pay your hospital bill. I told him to fuck off.’_

_‘Tell him that I say fuck off too.’_

“Clint says you should go too. So fucking leave, and take Sharon with you.”

“Sam, I owe you an explanation-“

“Well save it. I don’t want your explanations right now. I don’t know who you are, I don’t know how you got my address; I don’t even know your real name! Get out. Now.”

Bucky let himself out in silence and Sam was sure he heard him hesitate in the hallway before he walked down the stairs.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence. It isn't too bad dw

“I’m not serving you.”

Bucky looked ready to get on his knees and beg, “Sam please; I need to talk to you.”

“Sharon is still living on my doorstep and I’ve only just patched up the bathroom door. What part of ‘get out’ are you not understanding?”

“Please Sam. Please just listen to me.”

He sighed and pushed a glass of water in front of him. “Go sit down in the corner and shut up. I’ll join you when I’m on my break.”

He deliberately worked for another hour and a half straight without looking at him once, despite his break starting only moments after their conversation. He was damn close to calling the police in all honesty but he couldn’t help himself. Everyone deserved a second chance. Or maybe this was his third...

But this was it. If he fucked this up then he would take some more serious action against him.

He sat down heavily opposite Bucky and glared at him.

“Sam... I’m really sorry. About everything. Sharon works for me and I’d make her leave you alone if I wasn’t certain you didn’t need her protection.”

“I’m an army veteran. I can take care of myself.’

“I’m know you are and I know you can, but there are dangerous people on your back. Trust me; you need her.”

“Why are people suddenly trying to kill me?”

“That’s my fault.”

Of course it was. “Why?”

He leant in close to Sam, lowering his voice somewhat, “alre you familiar with the Bratva? Or the Mafia?”

“Everyone knows the Mafia.”

“And the Bratva are the Russian Mafia. I’m an Avtoritet within the Bratva.”

“What the hell is an Avtoritet?”

“It’s an ‘authority.’ A fairly high ranking member of the Bratva.”

The glare Sam harboured retreated and his expression dropped into a mix of fear and disbelief.

“I’m not going to hurt you Sam. Don’t be frightened of me, nothing has changed.”

“You’re in the fucking Mafia. That changes plenty.”

“Sam just-“

“Like I said before, I don’t even know your name. And I don’t want anything to do with you, or the Mafia. Definitely not the mafia.”

“What do you mean you don’t know my name? You keep saying you don’t know it: I’m Bucky, I told you that!”

“Well Nat called you James. And the ‘Winter Soldier.’ Care to explain that?”

“James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky’s short for Buchanan. I only use James in a professional capacity; Bucky is for my... my friends.” He took a deep breath and met Sam’s gaze, “The Winter Soldier is - no was - an assassin. That was before the Bratva. I was him. I’m not him anymore, but the name has stuck.”

“Jesus.”

Sam took a long sip from his coffee mug. He wasn’t really sure what to say. Thankfully, Bucky wasn’t done.

“Around the same time the Bratva began to grow in size, so did a group named Hydra. They caused the Bratva a lot of trouble and the Bratva almost wiped them out for it. They're back in the major league now, and I’m one of their biggest targets because I have a reputation for being incredibly dangerous. I didn’t think they’d go through you to get to me. I didn’t even think they’d know about you. I’m sorry.”

Sam drank in the information, the truth behind all his worldly troubles as of late. “I can’t escape this now, can I?”

Bucky shook his head and stared into the empty glass. He couldn’t deal with what he’d done to Sam and Clint; particularly Sam.

“Sam, I shouldn’t have ever spoken to you-“

“Damn right you shouldn’t have.”

“But you seem like such a great guy and I just want to know you.”

“And what if I don’t want to know you?”

Bucky didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on something behind Sam’s head.

“Bucky?”

“Does this place have a back door?”

“What? No. Why?”

The man in black leather down the street lowered his binoculars and tossed them into a bin. The second Bucky heard the engine start up, he moved. He grabbed Sam’s arm and hauled him to the other side of the café and shattered the window with his metal fist, the glass shards raining down on the ground at their feet. He damn near tore his car door off as he shoved Sam into the passenger seat, then vaulted over the roof to get into his own seat. The car shot forwards and Sam hit his head on the dashboard.

“What the f-“

He heard an explosion behind them. He’d heard enough in his lifetime to recognise one anywhere. In the wing mirror he could see the remains of Fury Cafe, smoke billowing out from the gaping hole where the coffee shop Sam so loved had been mere seconds ago. He cursed under his breath as they pulled further away from the wreckage. Bucky’s eyes switched between the rear view mirror and Sam as he tapped something into the phone mounted by the wheel.

“Your head’s bleeding.”

“What’s happening? What the fuck is happening?”

They took a corner way too fast and Bucky had to force Sam’s body to stay in his seat, managing to manoeuvre the car with one hand, “put your belt on.”

He complied out of complete and utter shock, unsure what to make of the whole situation. The car turned again and Sam was sure a phone was ringing.

“Nat, we just narrowly missed being blown to pieces. I need a safe house and I need it now.”

“Take the next left and stop at the house just passed the church. The garage is open. Park in there and I’ll have someone meet you in the church.”

Sam’s head throbbed painfully as if it was about to explode. The car slowed and pulled into some place dark. He felt Bucky pulling him this way and that, dragging him up some stairs. He dumped in on a bench. Instinctively, Sam lay down and let himself fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dramatic change of pace lol


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I didn't write this entirely in tiny, dramatic chapters. Also some gore warning.

Nicholas Fury wheeled Clint out to where he could see what had happened to the cafe. The road was blocked off, so they sat in the street. Fury was an old man, his face heavy with deep lines and his one good eye full of exhaustion. Clint wasn’t surprised when he said he was retiring after this. They watched body after body be pulled from the wreckage, each badly burnt and many missing limbs and chunks of flesh. One bystander had seen a young woman being taken to hospital in an ambulance, and word was that she might be the only survivor. They sat together on the bench and prayed to a God neither had ever had much time for that somehow Sam hadn’t been in there. Maybe he’d gone out to empty the bins, or taken his break in the park. It was hard to tell the bodies apart but Clint was sure none of them were Sam’s . Fury wasn’t as sure: he’d lost far too many people to be hopeful.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to realise that there's actually a fair amount of violence in this oops.

In the sacristy, Sam finally woke up. He was lying in a camping cot underneath a hanging wooden cross, swaying dangerously on old chains from a ceiling that was begging for attention before it caved in from water damage. He sat up slowly, the room swaying around him slightly, but his eyes still found the only other person in the room. Sam didn’t recognise him, but he recognised the robes of a Catholic priest.

“Where am I?”

“In the house of God.”

Vague. He couldn’t remember much after hitting his head on the dashboard, but he certainly couldn’t recall a church. Something about a safe house, but no church.

“Is this the safe house?”

“Of course it is, what else could a church be?!”

He stumbled to his feet and ended up leaning over a sink. Automatically he splashed his face with cold water, hoping it would clear some of the dizziness. It did, but not much.

“Where’s Bucky?”

“Bucky?”

“Uh... James. James Barnes. Where is he?”

“Oh, just through there!”

The corridor he walked through was much too cold for his liking, but it opened up at the base of the altar. Bucky was sat in the nave of the church, his head lowered and his eyes closed. Sam approached him slowly, his footsteps echoing around the empty building. Eventually the rows of dark wooden pews between them lessened and Bucky raised his head just as Sam reached his row.

“You’re awake.”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t ask to sit down or wait for an invitation, he just made himself comfortable and turned his eyes to Jesus, who was beaten and bloodied as he hung from his cross, just as lethal and ready fall as the one in the sacristy had been.

“Do you believe in God, Buck?”

“No. I’m pretty sure anyone who’d lived my life would feel the same way. Do you?”

Sam paused for a moment before he answered. He always did, the memories of his friends getting torn to shreds on the battle field swamping his faith in doubt. “I do. I don’t know if I want to, but I can’t help it I think there is one. I think that maybe he’s abandoned us. Or maybe he just enjoys suffering.”

“Well. I might not be able to believe in him,” Bucky replied, gesturing at Jesus, “but I can believe in your God.”

Somehow, between smashing the sense out of his head and Bucky’s apologies, he was finding it difficult to be angry with him. The light coming through the clouded stained glass was all different colours, but the one that shined on Bucky was blue. A cold colour. A calming colour.

“Why the Mafia?”

“Sorry?”

“Why are you on the Mafia? You don’t seem like an inherently bad person. You don’t seem keen on suffering and injustice. Why crime? Why the Bratava or whatever you call it.”

“The _Bratva,_ ” he corrected gently, “The Brotherhood. It’s Russian for Brotherhood.”

Bucky stared for a long time at Jesus before he spoke again, as if he was waiting for Jesus to give him the words he needed. “I was very young when my parents took me to Russia. My Dad had some kind of work out there – I don’t remember what – but we were only supposed to stay a few months. It was a sort of holiday. A few weeks into this holiday my parents were in a terrible car crash. By the time I got to the hospital they were dead. It was no accident they died. I was taken to a so-called orphanage where I was taught Russian and many other languages, and how to fire a gun and escape hand cuffs. In one training exercise, we were tied to a train track and had to escape before the train came. I made the mistake of thinking the train wasn’t real. I didn’t get out in time and my arm was shattered. They experimented on me. They made my prosthetic arm to be a weapon and they pumped me full of chemicals designed to make me some kind of enhanced assassin. Like they did with all the other students, they used conditioning to brainwash us and get us to follow any orders without being able to fight back. Despite being damaged goods, their experiment turned into a huge success. I became The Winter Soldier; a legendary assassin. I killed a lot of people I shouldn’t have. When I broke free, I could either work for an organised crime group of turn myself in for execution. The Bratva fight the group that did that to me, so I joined the Bratva. I’ll never know if I was an inherently a bad person, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t become one. I didn’t have much choice in the end.”

Again there was a long pause between them. The priest shuffled out of the sacristy and lit a few candles before running off elsewhere.

“I guess that explains the lack of faith in God.”

“More than.”

Sam bowed his head in prayer. He hadn’t prayed in a long time, but if there was a God who still cared then he wanted his forgiveness. Not for the people he shot or for not saving Clint from getting caught in the crossfire. He wanted the forgiveness for what he knew was coming next.

“I guess I’ve got to beg for your protection now. The Bratva’s protection.”

“You don’t have to beg, but you won’t last a day without it.”

“So does that mean I have to join the Bratva?”

“No. But it does mean you’ll be seeing a whole lot more of me.”

“Aren’t you important or something? Don’t you have other stuff to be focusing on?”

Bucky turned and smiled, his metal hand slapping Sam’s shoulder lightly, “I was under the impression that friends are more important than work.”

And Sam found himself nodding along, “sure, friends.”


	14. Chapter 14

Sharon knocked loudly on Clint’s door, thankful his dammed dog always brought visitors to his attention. The door opened and she passed him a note, the words ‘I have something you should see’ scrawled on it in cursive handwriting that was difficult to read. As he began to decipher it she pushed past him and set up her laptop on his kitchen table. He followed her through and helplessly watched her set up a Skype call.

_‘Hey pal.’_

Clint stared in disbelief at the image in front of him. Sam: alive and well.

_‘Christ almighty you scared me Sam. I thought you went up with the cafe.’_

Sam shook his head, unable to hide his smile for the sheer relief of seeing a familiar face after the hectic day he’d had. But he knew what he had to say next.

_‘I’ve ended caught up in a lot of bad stuff Clint. I’ve got to go into hiding for a while. It’s all going to be fine but I can’t be around for a while.’_

Clint laughed off the seriousness of the situation, but offered his friend a genuine smile for comfort, _‘Don’t worry about me. I’ve got Lucky. Just come back when it’s safe.’_

Sam didn’t get to say goodbye. Sharon closed the call just as Bucky said she would. The chance that the call would be traced was one the simply couldn’t take. But Bucky had promised that Sharon would check on Clint daily and keep him well away from the shit Sam had found himself entrenched in.

“Sorry Sam. He must mean a lot to you.”

He was caught off guard by Bucky’s sympathy, but on second thought he found the maybe Bucky wanted to hear more about their friendship. He was very set on them being friends, and the concept did seem awfully foreign to him.

“What’s the plan now? What do we do from here?”

“Well killers or not, I still have work to oversee. Without Sharon I’m a woman down so I need to be in my office. I guess you’ll have to come with me.”

“Right.”

He wasn’t comfortable with becoming an accessory to crime. Actually, Sam felt more like an accessory to Bucky than to a crime, like one of those dogs you dress up and push around in a pram. As far as he understood, it seemed like Bucky was very involved on Wall Street, bribing the rich and powerful to achieve certain outcomes. He was also responsible for keeping a number of crooked politicians in line, moving large amounts of illegal drugs and weapons through the state, and keeping other mobs and gangs from gaining too much power in the area. He had a pretty large group of people that did the actual legwork for him most of the time, but he oversaw it all and reported to his boss -the Pakhan. Sam had realised he’d have to observe his new friend breaking the law like it was no big deal and wouldn’t be able to stop him and report his activities the police. It seemed pretty clear that the police didn’t consider Hydra a threat to his safety. He doubted the Bratva cared about his safety even if they saw Hydra for the threat they really were.

Bucky had blatantly stated that Hydra was a threat to Sam and he did care for his safety. Bucky, it seemed, was his best call. Bucky was his first and last line of defence against an organisation he hadn’t know existed until earlier that day.

Sam was sat with Bucky on the steps outside the church. He didn’t seem too worried they’d be recognised and attacked as they waited for their ride to Bucky’s headquarters. Bucky didn’t seem worried about anything at all.

“When we’re with other people, you call me boss or Mr. Barnes. James is reserved for the people who rank higher than me, and a few exceptions. No one calls me Bucky. The only people who even know I use Bucky are you, Nat, and Sharon.”

Sam wanted to say ‘and Clint.’ He kept quiet.

“I can’t keep you there as a friend I’m protecting. The Pakhan won’t be keen on that story, so you’re my secretary. I’ll give you some paper to file and you can file it all day, or you can go to the gym or whatever. Just stay quiet, that’s all you have to do.”

“You’re making Hydra sound like a fun group of people.”

“You’re being a dick about this. I’m doing my best to right a wrong.”

“Sounds like a pretty selfish motive.”

“Sounds like you’re an ungrateful son of a bitch.”

Sam laughed. It was funny, the easy exchange of insults between them. Bucky laughed too, but only after Sam and much more quietly. The sun was setting as they waited, and the cooling air was beginning to make Sam uncomfortable. He shivered, still just in a polo shirt and jeans. Without even offering verbally, Bucky slid out of his leather jacket and dropped it on Sam’s shoulders. It was warm, aside from the left side where his metal arm was, and it smelt strongly of car fumes, ozone, and heartbreak. He pulled it a little tighter round him and muttered a thanks to Bucky.


	15. Chapter 15

“Do you believe in soul mates?”

The question made Sam jump as it pulled him sharply from his thoughts. He looked at Bucky as he tried to replay the question in his head until it made sense. Some minutes later the question was coherent and he gave his answer.

“No. I believe in a deep love between people that can be shown in different ways. If you feel a particularly strong pull toward someone it doesn’t mean they’re your soul mate. You just feel ready to love them in a particular way; a different way than you would love a family member or a friend obviously.”

“You said you didn’t do sex and romance. Would you do it for the person you felt a pull towards?”

“No. I wouldn’t feel so strongly about someone if that’s what they wanted. Maybe Clint would have been the person I felt most strongly about if it wasn’t for his want of a sexual and romantic relationship. It’s not like that between us. It wouldn’t be like that between me and that person.”

The last rays of light turned the sky lilac and pink. Bucky looked to it for answers. “What would it be like?”

He couldn’t remember anyone ever asking this kind of thing before, and he’d be the first to declare his lack of experience in the matter. He put Bucky’s curiosity down to lack of experience too and tossed him a sincere but probably somewhat rose-tinted answer, “it would be... soft. Just love. I would love them. I’d cuddle them and care for them. I’d sleep with them and kiss their forehead at night. We’d be happy and we’d share everything with each other. I’d consider them my life partner; someone I revolved around. They’d always be my first choice. Like a best friend but more. A partnership. It would just be an expression of love and devotion we both felt comfortable with, just like it should be.”

“That sounds good.”

Sam smiled at him, watching him lie back against the stone steps to soak up the last of the heat.

“I think I could live like that,” Bucky mused quietly, just loud enough for Sam to hear, “I think that sounds better than a soul mate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fluff


	16. Chapter 16

The ride to the headquarters was longer than Sam had expected it to be. The world grew dark around them, and the buildings gradually shrunk and thinned out as the left the city behind. Sam was sat alone in the back of yet another black SUV, half listening to the endless phone calls Bucky was making in what Sam presumed was Russian. He spoke it beautifully, just like he spoke English; only Sam didn’t know a word of Russian so he could make up his own translation. After he tired of that game, he thought back to Clint: alone, out of a job, and still stuck in a wheelchair. It felt like Sam’s own fault. He let his eyes fall shut and tried to clear his mind.

The car rumbled as it pushed along the winding gravel driveway. The slower speed brought Sam back to attention and he felt himself yawning as a large building drew nearer. Bucky was still in deep conversation with whoever it was on the phone when the car stopped. He hopped out and opened the door wide for Sam, gesturing for him to follow.

He wished Bucky walked slower through the mansions entrance hall, beautiful artworks hanging in the walls around him that he desperately wanted to take a closer look at. Bucky powered on up a flight of stairs, down a long corridor, and up two more flights of stairs. Every door they passed was open, and every room was occupied by people doing something as innocent as playing cards, to something more questionable like throwing knives or cleaning a gun. He couldn’t help feeling unsafe and heavily outnumbered.

They eventually reached a double door that two armed guards opened for them. The room behind the doors was huge, containing a good many chairs surrounding a desk with papers piled high all over it. There were also the kind of equipment you’d expect to find in a martial arts class tucked away in the corner, and a desk near the door that was empty bar the computer left on it. Bucky finished his phone call and waved his arm at Nat, who was casually sat in his chair reading through some file. He said something to her in Russian as she got to her feet and walked to join them.

“Sam, this is Romanoff. You’ll hear some people call her ‘Chyornaya Vdova’ – ‘The Black Widow’ – but you call her Romanoff. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

The Bucky he’d spoken to earlier didn’t act like this: he was Sam’s equal. He guessed he should have anticipated Bucky being this way in front of his colleagues, more commanding and powerful.

“Romanoff is my second in command, so she’s in and out of here a lot. If you have any questions and I’m not around, ask her.”

Sam was hit by the memory of being thrown on the floor and watching her bust down a door with a single kick. He didn’t move like the idea of asking her for help. Bucky obviously saw the lack of trust on his face.

“She’s under my orders and I trust her with my life. Trust me, you have no need to be frightened of her.”

Nat said something in Russian to Bucky and left the room without even glancing at Sam. He waited for the door to close before he spoke again, “last time I saw her she tackled me.”

“Well she is very good at that. Anyway, the door to the left of my desk is my private quarters. The room to the right is yours. You work at the desk by door. By tomorrow you’ll have an intercom and you use that to ask for food and drink to be brought to you. Don’t leave this room without my express permission – I can’t guarantee that none of my employees aren’t with Hydra. You can trust me and you can trust Nat. No one else.”

Sam nodded but he couldn’t help laughing, “you can drop the tough guy act, you know? You don’t need to scare me into following your orders.”

It took Bucky a moment for his stance to sink into a more relaxed version of what it was, but he conceded that Sam didn’t need him to be in Avtoritet mode around him.

“You should get some rest Sam. You’ve had a rough day.”

Sam nodded and headed towards his door obediently, pausing with his hand on the handle when Bucky said, “thank you.”

“For what?”

Bucky shrugged. He knew what he wanted to say, but now really wasn’t the time. “Nothing, forget it. Good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter of the evening, I'll upload some more tomorrow. Night x


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some gore, nothing worse than what you've already read...

Sam didn’t sleep well. Without the city around him it was far too quiet to be comfortable, and with Bucky only rooms away it was far too loud. Every so often he’d scream in his sleep or shout something in a language Sam didn’t recognise. He got night terrors every so often, ever since his service just like every other veteran. This was petty extreme though, even compared some of the worst cases he’d seen at his time in the VA. He wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or concerned after the screaming stopped shortly after a loud crash.

He woke up to the familiar sound of punches landing on a punch bag, the steady pace of the swings hitting him in the chest as the sound built with the power behind them. He decided he really didn’t want to be on the end of Bucky’s fist when he heard a heavy thud as the bag hit the ground.

The shower was surprisingly warm and the soap surprisingly nice. He wasn’t sure if Bucky was being considerate or the Bratva just had excellent taste, but he smelt of lemon as he stepped out of the shower, and the clothes left for him in the drawers smelt equally fresh. The material was good quality too, all tailored pants and cashmere sweaters. He’d never worn anything quite so luxurious, but he looked good in the mirror. He swore the reflection said ‘damn good’ back. He was pretty sure he’d have no trouble getting used to the new luxuries.

Outside his door Bucky had lost count of how many press ups he’d done. His muscles were burning and the sweat was dripping off him but it didn’t feel like enough, so he kept going. He’d discarded his shirt hours ago, and now his shorts were soaked through with sweat, just as his hair was. He could smell blood too, his knuckles still oozing hours after the incident. The cuts weren’t big, but they were deep. They’d heal soon enough anyway.

Sam didn’t say a word to Bucky as he walked to his desk. He looked like a man that didn’t want to be bothered, but once he’d reached his chair he realised he didn’t have clue what he was supposed to do. He heard Bucky give a massive sigh as he rolled onto his back and sat up to address Sam.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He seemed unsure of himself and what he should say.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” Sam lied “although I did hear something from your room I think, sometime after midnight I think.” He was pussyfooting around the subject, not wanting to make Bucky uncomfortable – it was pretty obvious he hadn’t slept.

“It was nothing.” He answered to quickly for it to be the truth, and Sam was suddenly overwhelmed by the curiosity. What had happened in there? He only just stopped himself from probing any further when he noticed his bloodied hand. Maybe there was a good reason he was pretending it hadn’t happened.

Bucky jumped to his feet to stretch out and Sam found himself staring at his impressive build. The show was over too quickly and suddenly Bucky was hiding how red his cheeks were and desperately grabbing at the sodden t–shirt to cover is bare chest. “I’m gonna shower and stuff. There’s a file on my desk with a large ‘M’ on. Everything in it is in Russian but you can just-“

The door swung open and in stormed Nat, immediately talking in rushed Russian at Bucky. She looked furious. Judging from how Bucky didn’t seem to argue back, she wasn’t furious because of him. Bucky told her something quietly and calmly and gestured for her to go. He grabbed the clean sweater that was folded on his desk and pulled it quickly over his head. “I won’t be a second Sam. I’ve got to sort this out downstairs. Just don’t go anywhere and you’ll be fine.” He was gone before Sam could say goodbye.

Sat alone in the office Sam still wasn’t sure what to do. He walked over to Bucky’s desk and picked up the file with ‘M’ on. He couldn’t read a word of it but flicked through the pages anyway hoping for pictures. Nada. Boring. His eyes fell on the door Bucky had disappeared into last night.

Would it be so bad if he took a small peak at the room?

Probably. Maybe someone would shoot him for it.

He opened the door. It looked much like his own room: double bed, chest of drawers, wardrobe, desk, and an en suite. He had a large chest at the bottom of his bed that was open and full of knives. Sam picked one up, noticing the exquisite embroidered handle. It looked like an antique – he was no expert, but some of the dyed threads had faded in places and the blade looked dull; chipped in places. The room seemed pretty tidy all in all, and very normal. The noise he’d heard last night either really hadn’t been Bucky, or the evidence had been cleared away.

Or perhaps he was in the wrong room.

He only had to open the door to the en suite to see what had happened. Where the mirror should have been was an empty frame and in its centre there was a fist sized dent in the wall that had pushed through the tiles into the brickwork. The glass shards were all over the sink and the floor, drizzled in blood. On one side of the sink there was more of a pool of blood, and Sam could almost see Bucky leaning over the sink in the dark, panting hard and his hand in a fist, knuckles pressing onto the sharp fragments and bleeding slowly onto the counter.

He backed out of the bathroom, then out of the bedroom. He picked up the file and brought it to his desk. He wondered if asking Bucky about it was a bad idea, even if it was the right thing to do.

He wondered if anyone had ever cared enough about Bucky’s welfare to ask before.

If they had, he wondered if they’d lived to tell the tale.


	18. Chapter 18

“Why’d you lie to me?”

“What?”

Sam took a deep breath and turned his chair to face Bucky, “Why’d you lie to me?”

“About what?”

“Last night.”

Bucky said nothing for a very long time. He turned back to his computer slowly and was stopped by Sam’s voice just as he began to type.

“When I came back from Afghanistan I used to scream in my sleep. I’d wake up in sweats. In the middle of the day I’d hear something that reminded me of the battlefield and I’d have unstoppable flashbacks. My therapist sent me to group therapy. You ever been to group therapy?”

“...No.”

“Well the idea is a lot of people listen to you talk about your problems. They support you and validate you because they have those problems too. It gave me a space to get stuff of my chest in a room full of people that wouldn’t judge me for it. After a few weeks, I felt like there were finally people who cared about me. After a few months I was learning how to cope with flashbacks and how to get myself back to sleep when it felt like I couldn’t ever sleep again.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You kept me up half the night screaming in your sleep. You punched a hole through a brick wall. You cut your hand on broken glass and did nothing about it before beginning strenuous exercise. I sounds like your life has been hell from day one so I don’t blame you for having your issues. But I don’t appreciate keeping quiet about them.”

Well he wasn’t dead. Sam Wilson had called a former assassin out on his shit and he hadn’t died. He wasn't getting anything out of him either.

“Bucky, you want to be friends? Friends talk to each other.”

He waited a minute. Two. Three. He got up and walked right up to his desk and looked pointedly down at his hand, fresh blood still seeping out of the wounds and something glinting inside the cuts.

“Did you even try to remove the glass from your hand?”

No reply. Without giving an explanation Sam walked away to his room and rummaged in the cupboard under the sink for… yes, there was a first aid kit. He returned to Bucky and opened up the green box, “Bucky, please let me take the glass out of your knuckles.”

He was still typing as if it didn’t hurt, as if it wasn’t affecting his mobility in his one real hand. It was almost like he didn’t want to acknowledge it was there, and Sam saying something about it was an extraordinary act that he had no practice in dealing with.

“I didn’t mean to sound so aggressive about the friend thing. I’m asking now as your friend to fix you up. Please let me help.”

Reluctantly he stopped typing and slid his hand across the desk to Sam. Thanking him gently, Sam fished the scissors out from the kit and carefully pulled the cuts far apart enough to slide them in and remove the shards. He heard barely more than a grunt from Bucky the whole time, no matter how large the broken pieces were or how often Sam failed to keep his slight tremor from fucking a relatively simple procedure. The last piece of glass Sam could see finally joined the others in the bin by Bucky’s desk and he lightly applied antibacterial anaesthetic cream to the cuts and scrapes before wrapping the hand in a fresh bandage and pinning it in place, impressed with his efforts despite it being a while since he’ last had to do anything of the sort.

Bucky didn’t thank him, or even so much as look at Sam’s work. He went straight back into typing and Sam found himself wandering back to his des and leaving the first aid kit in one of the many drawers. Bucky refused to acknowledge his existence for what remained of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol my hamster is judging me for editing past midnight


	19. Chapter 19

Bucky ignored him the next day. He didn’t give him a single piece of work to do, and he shrugged whenever Sam tried to start a conversation. Sam quickly became bored with this arrangement, and suggested he join Nat on her run to deliver a package to a courier who was waiting in the foyer. He asked permission and received a shrug. Responding with an eye roll he stormed off after Nat, relieved to escape the sheer torment of watching Bucky work in perfect silence.

Out of ear shot of Bucky, Nat smirked at Sam quite openly and decided to give him sass instead of sympathy, “what did you do to put him in such a bad mood?”

“He’s in a bad mood? I hadn’t noticed.”

He was quite surprised when she laughed at his bitter, sarcastic retort. She seemed so stern and professional that her finding any part of Sam likable seemed impossible: and yet, she was laughing at his sucky comeback as if she genuinely liked that he’d not backed down from her initial attack.

“So you haven’t learned to treat me like a lady since I slammed your body into a tiled floor and busted your door down?”

“It’s not really like you act like one anyway.”

They turned a sharp corner and Sam narrowly avoided colliding with a heavyset, heavily inked man thanks to Nat grabbing his arm and dragging him out the way.

“Well thanks.”

“You’re not a total idiot, you don’t deserve to get pummelled by Krushnik on your first day of Bratva school.”

“And you’re not a total bitch.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

The courier waiting for them took the package, bowing slightly at Nat before leaving. Sam raised an eyebrow at the formality of the gesture and received a look of ‘what did you expect?’ It was a fair question really, everyone seemed to treat her with the same regard as an atomic bomb. He decided there was probably a good reason for that.

“You like boxing Wilson?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter of the night - I need sleep before I have a social life to attend to tomorrow afternoon. Happy reading x


	20. Chapter 20

With the friendly banter that had worked up between them, he felt pretty sure that Nat was challenging him to a duel. He was obviously game – anything to keep out of Bucky’s way. And Nat seemed like a good time; it certainly wouldn’t hurt to make a few friends.

Nat was not a good time, but she was awesome at wiping the floor with her opponent’s face. With her hair scraped back and her well defined body wrapped in yoga pants and a simple black t-shirt, she didn’t really look like too much of a force to be reckoned with. Sam was lying on the floor, panting a bruised, and he’d just learned that she was practically unbeatable. She offered him her hand and mocking grin, “another round Wilson?” “I’ll call it a day actually. I was sort of in a car accident yesterday, so I’m not really on form.” Sam struggled to his feet and immediately rested back on the ropes, finding the strength to have drained from his legs. Natasha walked over and sat cross-legged on the floor, patting the space beside her. He let himself sink to the ground.

“So I heard you only made one call yesterday to let people in your life know that you weren’t dead. No family?”

“No family. Mum died years ago, and I lost contact with my brother after Afghanistan. Before then it was just the three of us because dad walked out not long after I was born. Clint’s all I got really.”

“He’s the guy Sharon’s with? She’ll be good to him.”

“She seemed nice.”

Nat sighed and looked to the heavens, “yeah. Yeah she’s pretty nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to upload tons today, but plans change and I've ended up cleaning my room. I have really bad depression so I haven't had the motivation to do shit with my room since Christmas and it's a tip, but I've sorted half the shelves and I've made room for my hamster, my snail, and my beardie to live with me and not take up surface's around the house. Lucky for you guys my back is wrecked from working on my room all day so I'm taking a break and editing.


	21. Chapter 21

Sam regretted ever walking into Bucky’s room. Bucky hadn’t spoken to him in a month. Every time he tried to ask him something he pretended to be busy. Any instructions came through Nat, who told him not to worry, that Bucky always bounced back. He wasn’t sure how much she knew to be giving that kind of advice. Probably not enough.

Weeks went by. Sharon sent him regular updates on Clint’s recovery through the email Nat had provided him with. Nat showed him round the gym and he tried training with her – he couldn’t keep up. He actually became quite close to Nat; she seemed to have a kind of sympathy for him, see how unlucky he was to be in this situation and appreciate how he was making the most of it.

Sam backed up and leant against the ropes, his gloved hands raising in defeat, “Let’s take five, I’m exhausted.”

“Alright Wilson.”

They collapsed together on a bench, the foundation of the boxing ring serving as a back rest. Sam watched a man who had to be seven feet tall straining to lift far more than a healthy man should be lifting. It was sort of comical – you never thought of Mafia members fighting a bar with two disks on with all their strength, making noises and faces that really ought to be kept out of public view.

“Hey, Romanoff? How much do you know about Barnes’ private life?”

She scoffed and soon her head in exasperation, “He doesn’t have one. He knows no one outside the Mafia who isn’t either an enemy or an ally to us. His hobbies are exercise and ignoring people. Since the day Hydra got hold of him that’s what his life has been, and I don’t see that changing.”

“Aren’t Mafia members supposed to live in huge country mansions and marry foreign models half their age?”

She laughed properly this time, “you haven’t learnt a thing Wilson. Bratva members marry Russians, or they marry for political reasons; to secure alliances perhaps. Most Avtoritets marry the second they get their hands on the title because it comes with so much power and money, so they can choose any woman they want. Barnes hasn’t so much as mentioned it. The one time I saw the Pakhan suggest he find a nice girl and make some new Bratva kids, he gave me the silent treatment for a week.”

Sam’s mind conjured the conversation about soul mates they had on the church steps not so long ago. He remembered the way he’d said he wanted a girl. He remembered Clint telling him when he was in his mid-twenties and still telling every stranger he met that he was into girls and girls alone, in the hope they wouldn’t realise he was fine with both boys and girls – anyone else for that matter.

“You don’t think he’s gay-“

Nat broke into a coughing fit so suddenly and violently that Sam jumped in surprise. The gigantic weight lifter lumbered over to her as she wheezed loudly.

“You alright Ms. Romanoff?”

His accent was very heavy and Sam wasn’t sure how Nat understood it, but she nodded and weakly answered something about choking on her drink. He nodded and returned to his war with the weights as Nat sat down, her face red.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Wilson, you can’t use _that word_ here. They’d execute him if he was.”

“So he is, you know, then?”

“No. I don’t know. It’s none of my business. And if he is and I knew for sure, they’d put me down too. The Bratva isn’t very open minded. How many other black men have you seen in this place?”

“None.”

“Well think of it like this: people of every colour try to get accepted into the Bratva all the time, and the Bratva chooses to kill them instead of having them join. They’re asking enough questions about why you’re here without you spreading rumours about the one thing they loathe more than people of colour: people who defy the gender and sexual preference norms. As far as everyone is concerned, Barnes is straight as an arrow. That includes you Wilson. You know he’s straight. Do not suggest otherwise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My back hurts so bad ugh


	22. Chapter 22

Bucky was very aware Sam wasn’t typing. He was positively distracted by the fact he hadn’t typed a single letter for more than an hour. He was exasperated by how little attention he was paying to the file he was supposed to be making a digital copy of. Sam only had to give the appearance of being at work: Bucky didn’t truly expect him to aid the Bratva in any way, but he usually did more than this.

In Sam's head, he was finding it impossible to forget his conversation with Nat. It was so hard to forget that he didn’t notice Bucky staring across the room at him for answers. He wanted to know if Bucky really was straight; if he simply didn’t want a woman in his life. But if that wasn’t the case, then how did he find out how Bucky really felt about people? Should he even care about all that anyway?

“What’s on your mind Sam?”

The sound of Bucky speaking English in his presence for the first time in weeks caught him off guard. He dropped his pencil as his head snapped up to look at Bucky, who was leaning deep into his chair with a puzzled look on his face.” Huh?” was all he managed to say in reply.

“You look pretty lost in thought. I asked if you were okay.”

“Oh no; I heard _that_. I just didn’t realise we were talking now.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Sam sighed, astonished by Bucky’s ignorance, “You’ve not said more than a couple of words to me in weeks. More than a month of radio silence and now you’re concerned enough to ask if I’m feeling okay just because I’m staring into space. As always; I’m fine. You’re the one with problems and you’re the one causing me problems.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you Sam.”

“I can’t deal with you ignoring your own issues to help me out when I don’t even need any help. I know you don’t want to offend me, but I’m telling you as bluntly as I can that nothing will improve in your life if you don’t try and resolve at least some of your problems. You’re welcome to come to me when you’re ready to talk about you, but I’m done talking about me. I’m turning in for an early night. You should take the time to think about your place in the world and why it might not be all that great.”

He stood up quickly and walked into his room quickly without any further fuss. He let his body fall against the bed and stretched to reach his book. He didn’t want to think how much those words might have hurt Bucky, but he needed to have heard them. Sam wasn’t interested in being some pet that distracted from the real problems in Bucky’s life, and now it was his turn to remain perfectly silent until Bucky broke. So he buried himself in a book about Renaissance Italy and swept the memory of the just passed conversation under the rug in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can ask why my chapters are so short but I don't have the answer. I have no idea.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I don't know Russian. I might have used the wrong word...

Sam wasn’t asleep when the door clicked open. He’d been too aware of the quiet from Bucky’s room to get to sleep, worried that something was seriously wrong with him due to the general lack of screaming. His back was turned away from the door, but the sound of metal on wood as the door shut behind him told him who it was – not that it could have been anyone else.

“Sam?”

He held Bucky in suspense, debating if he really wanted to know the intentions behind this late night visit. Eventually he sighed and pushed himself up and sat cross-legged on the bed.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Sure.” He tried to keep the scepticism from his voice as best he good in the hope Bucky had something worthwhile to say.

“I screwed up when I decided to stay and talk to you the first night we met. I’m a dangerous person and I should have left you alone. Clint would have been fine and your café would still be as wonderful as ever. I owe you a huge apology for fucking up your life and getting you involved in the Bratva. I’m sorry I dragged you into this life and I’m sorry I haven’t spoken to you in weeks for no good reason. I’m sorry and I mean it, I just don’t know how to prove it to you.”

“Apology accepted.”

His eyes snapped and met Sam’s in utter shock, “seriously?”

“Yeah. Of course. You seem pretty sincere about it so I forgive you.”

“Oh.”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, awkwardly looking around the dark room and licking his lips.

“Is there… something else? Bucky?”

He nodded, catching his bottom lip in his teeth while he gathered the courage to speak up, “can I sit?”

Sam gestured to the end of the bed and felt the mattress dip under his weight; he correctly reckoned that the arm weighed an awful lot, but the flesh and bloody remainder of Bucky was probably well over two-hundred pounds anyway. He waited calmly for Bucky to carry on, but he didn’t. He sat on the edge of the bed becoming increasingly distracted, his eyes slipping out of focus and his posture sagging as if his soul had left the room entirely.

He didn’t count the minutes he waited for something, but it was the middle of the night and he needed to sleep, “Bucky, whatever it is can wait. If you’re not ready to talk about it, save it for another day.”

He got a quiet and somewhat faraway hum of agreement from Bucky, who slowly came back to reality; pushing his long hair behind his ears and standing up. Still fairly stuck in his own world he walked lightly toward the door.

“Sleep well Buck. I’ll see you in the morning.”

From anyone else ‘yeah’ would have been insulting. Sam attributed the curt response to his well-meant sentiment as a general lack of knowledge in social interaction on Bucky’s part. He lay back on his bed and breathed in the gentle ‘yeah,’ reliving the kindness and cautious effort to come across as grateful for listening to him that Bucky had packed into a single, one syllable word. He could feel a fondness for Bucky growing behind his ribs; a budding sense of true affection for the Bratva associate that had lived in an intolerant, ill-meaning society for an abundantly unhealthy about of time. His natural instinct to make things better, instilled into him by the VA, was kicking into overdrive and he fell asleep thinking of all the little things he could do to make Bucky’s day a little brighter, just to say thanks for doing his best to fix a problem that could only partly be blamed on him and to give him a taste of what it’s like to live in the real world. As someone who’d seen the war, the inhumanity that violence brings out of people, but also someone who’d served simple pleasures in the form of warm beverages and understood how to combat inhumanity peacefully, he felt qualified to show Bucky the life beyond crime.

Across the hall, Bucky lay atop the sheets, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. He tasted bitter regret in his mouth for not being able to say to Sam what he’d wanted to. Spreading through his chest was a warmth from Sam’s forgiveness and understanding, though, contrasting against his regret as much as icy blue does to fiery red on a blank canvas. And there – he caught himself thinking of art, making up metaphors for his emotions. It was unfamiliar territory but he only had to think of Sam and his mind was flooded with chocolate coloured irises, a tender touch, and a heady sweetness that clung to him even when he was drenched in sweat or dusted in coffee powder. He imagined Sam tasted like warm honey, and that his skin was incomparably soft and stretched for miles over his well-maintained build.

“Krasivaya…”

He barely whispered the word, fearing someone would hear the word slip past his lips; fearing someone would know that he thought Sam was… beautiful. If they knew – worse, if Sam knew and didn’t feel the same way…

He let his body sink deeper into the bed, not sleeping but closing his eyes and fantasising: of a world where his parents had never gone to Russia, and he’d grown up like anyone one else in America. An alternate universe where he could live his life how he wished, and he was innocent and unafraid to confide in Sam. It was quite impossible that he would ever live such a life, but just for one night he let himself believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I actually like my writing in this chapter, so hey that's cool.


	24. Chapter 24

Bucky worked out _a lot._ Even for a former assassin with a body Charles Atlas would easily give his seal of approval to, he worked out a lot. But not once in a month and a bit had _this_ particular problem occurred. Apparently he’d been doing one armed press-ups, so naturally he’d put the metal arm behind his back. Apparently he hadn’t realised how far he’d pushed it. What was obviously true was that it was stuck.

Sam walked out of his room faced with this story and the image of shirtless, sweaty Bucky sat on the floor with the prosthetic twisted in ways an arm shouldn’t. The sliver plates didn’t seem to be aligning properly, and Bucky demonstrated how hard it was to move it even a little. He obviously wasn’t lying about that because the arm had always been very silent. Now the metal made a scratching and groaning sound.

“Okay, stop that. If you bend the plates out of shape it’ll never work again.”

“Well what am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, has this happened before?”

“No.”

This pretty much confirmed Sam’s suspicions that Bucky had probably done something incredibly stupid that had nothing at all to do with press ups.

“Can you help me?”

Sam sighed and decided not to ask why he had to help. There was no use in arguing anyway because if he wasn’t going to do it, then soon enough there’d be a third person in here helping Bucky’s arm out and distracting him from doing nothing at all which is what he didn’t want. He walked over to Bucky and sat down behind him, his hand hovering just a fraction from the silvery surface.

“Are you trying to push the plates into place?”

“What? No. Are you sure you’re fine with me touching it?”

He’d never been close enough to Bucky to see the deep white scars that wove a pattern of immeasurable pain around the base of the arm, the way the skin raised around the wires that disappeared into his chest. The flesh around it was covered in zig-zagging stretch marks too from trying to hold up the sheer weight of the metal.

“Yeah you can touch it. I trust you.”

The statement made Sam’s heart flutter and pushed his fingers forward to gently run over the warped plates. He tried nudging them back into place only to find the resisted easily.

“You can put your weight into it: I can’t feel a thing in that arm.”

He swallowed and obeyed, shoving one of the crooked plates into place with an almighty push. Bucky grunted, but didn’t seem apparently hurt by the act, so Sam punched the next one into place, and the next. He pushed the final piece back to where it belonged and Bucky easily lowered his arm into his lap, testing his fingers and elbow to make sure everything was in order. Then he moved his shoulder in circles, his other hand pressed hard against skin that had fused to the metal. Even from behind him he could see the pain in the movement.

“Does it always hurt that much to use it or did I do something wrong?”

“No it’s fine thanks.”

His answer was too quick Sam’s liking and he experimented by insisting for a truthful answer with a heavy sigh of disbelief. All he had to do was wait ten long, silent seconds.

“I meant that you did a good job. It always hurts. I’m used to it, don’t worry.

Sam put a hand on Bucky’s other shoulder and pushed himself to his feet, shaking his head even though Bucky couldn’t see him, “I do worry Bucky. I care about you; of course I worry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adore is trying to eat her cage floor. Kill me. I move two more pets into my room and they don't make sound, but oh no, little miss noisy won't shut up.
> 
>  
> 
> I love her really....


	25. Chapter 25

“If it hurts so much to use it, why do you switch between your arms fairly when you train?”

Bucky didn’t use the gym: he used the ample space in the office to exercise in private, pushing the meeting desk aside for a little extra room. Naturally Sam was there to watch him now he wasn’t constantly trying to keep out of his way, and since he observed the stress the arm put on Bucky’s chest and what remained of his shoulder, he deemed it a fair question. Bucky stopped decimating the punch bag and turned to Sam still panting heavily and flushed from the exercise.

“Because the muscles at the base of it need to be strong for me to work it properly, and so I can use it as a weapon when I need to.”

“You sound like you’ve practiced that answer.”

“I was trained by people who literally brainwashed me into a tool who’d carry out their work without question. It’s easier to talk about it if I just use the phrasing they taught me.”

“But you’re not that person anymore. You’re you, even if you have no choice but to answer to the Bratva. Why put yourself through the pain? Why not look to have it removed and replaced? It’s not as if you’d be helpless without it.”

Bucky shrugged and went back to throwing endless punches, powerful enough to tear the bag easily. The sand spilt across the rug, now free of its container, and Bucky watched the flow of it; the way it spread across the floor and some of the granules sunk into the carpet.

Two days later he split another bag and as the sand pooled at his feet he dropped his fists and let his body relax.

“I am helpless without it.”

Sam put his pen down and looked up at his friend, who despite his massive presence looked a little forlorn, “hmm?”

“The arm. Without it I’m disabled; my body is worth less and I cannot function the way everyone else does.”

“And why would functioning differently be an issue? Why couldn’t you learn to do that and stop putting yourself through torment?”

“Because I’d be worthless to the Bratva, and would have lost the one thing between me and certain death at their hands.”

Sam shook his head, resting the weight of it in his hands as he tried to comprehend how fucked up Bucky’s life had to be for him to say something like that, and for him to endure unimaginable torture on a daily basis without thinking about it twice.

“It shouldn’t be like that.”

Bucky didn’t answer. The Bratva had been good to him; they’d kept him safe from Hydra for so many years, so really he owed them his life. For that reason alone he didn’t resent them or the pain he put himself through to keep on living. Sam wasn’t used to a world where you had to choose from the lesser of two evils and he probably wouldn’t understand his choices. Telling Sam everything was great until what he wanted to tell him was beyond what he would accept and understand. For now he’d stay quiet and refrain from showing how he truly felt about the Bratva. Just having Sam there was enough of a ‘fuck you’ to last him a good long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys could see how many times my tablet has corrected 'Bratva' to 'Brava' and 'Bucky' to 'Becky,' you would know what true pain was.


	26. Chapter 26

Nat sent Sam an email later in the week that improved his somewhat down mood since Bucky had defended the torture device he called an arm as his saviour. Clint had finally let Bucky pay his hospital bill, and as a get well soon gift had bought the café that had been blown to pieces and had begun fixing it up. Sharon, who’d apparently become his new best friend and was quickly picking up sign language, was helping him to redecorate (which meant he sat in his wheelchair and made decisions while she did the hard work and Lucky ruined the paint work). He was recovering well and no one had made any further attempts on his life either. He sent his best to Sam and Sam returned the sentiment.

Sure Nat was fun in the gym, and Bucky was a sort of friend, but he missed Clint signing stupid shit while they were supposed to be working and Lucky eating his unfinished snacks right off his plate when their movie got so intense he left the food unprotected. And the smell of mahogany and old paper had nothing on coffee beans and boiling water. And the lack of customers…

He declared himself homesick after that. He didn’t anticipate Bucky making him strong signature coffees and setting up a projector for a movie night. He had his men drag in a sofa for the pair of them and an impressive spread of snacks on a coffee table just in reach.

“Is this okay?”

Bucky was about to turn the lights off and let the film play when he blurted out the question.

“Is what okay?”

“All this,” he gestured to the food and the screen with real worry clinging to his face. He suddenly felt liked he’d overstepped his boundaries with Sam and misjudged their friendship completely.

“It’s great. It’s a proper movie night. Why are you so worried about it?”

“I’ve not done a movie night before. You just said that you missed watching stuff with Clint and I wanted to make you feel more at home. I’m not trying to replace him, I just wanted to make you happy.”

Sam gave him a soft smile and patted the space beside him, “well then turn the lights off and come and watch the film with me.”

They had such a great night together they decided to do it again.

The time after that, they set up on Bucky’s bed and watched an old film noir. The bed was comfier than the sofa; much easier to spread out on and provided plenty of room for both of them. When Sam fell asleep half way through, Bucky gave him a blanket and slept on the sofa in the office, deciding it was the honourable thing to do. Movie night became a regular thing and after Sam fell asleep so many times he told Bucky he was fine sharing the bed with him. Bucky thanked him but never did so. It felt much to intimate.


	27. Chapter 27

Jason Bourne was tearing about the screen, still pretty damn clueless as to what was happening to him as Bucky made some throw away comment about his lousy sniper work when Sam found the confidence to bring the subject to the metaphorical table. He always sat on Bucky’s right, pretty comfortable with resting against his real arm, but that close to Bucky you could sort of hear the gentle whirring of his left ‘arm,’ and since he’d defended it he couldn’t get it out of his head…

“Can I ask you something that you might not want to talk about?”

His gaze dropped from the screen to Sam, who was pushing himself more upright so he could talk properly with Bucky. He took a very slow, deep breath and moved his gaze back to the screen, “Is it about Hydra?”

“Yeah. You don’t have to-“

“No it’s fine. Ask.”

“Can you explain the whole Winter Soldier thing to me?”

He nodded and let his mind wind right back to his earliest memories of the place, figuring out the quickest way to explain years of complexities he didn’t wholly remember.

“Essentially they brainwashed us. They had classes for everything, and one lesson a day was dedicated to associating particular words and phrases with certain commands. After they built me a new arm and started experimenting on me with enhancement serums, they decided to go further. They’d use a series of words you would never hear together, chosen at random if you will, that would put me in a certain frame of mind. I would receive my mission orders and act accordingly, then return and be reset. With a lot of hard work, they figured out how to do that: first they dehumanized me, made me think of myself as a weapon, ‘The Asset,’ and then drilled it into me relentlessly. Then they used that to make me do whatever they needed.”

“How did you escape then?”

“Time weakens the effect of the brainwashing. My mission took much longer than expected and I began thinking for myself.”

Sam couldn’t help breaking the problem down like he’d done at the VA for so many veterans, stripping the endless issues back to the base and working from there.

“I have PTSD. When I hear loud explosions I get overwhelmed with memories of the battlefield. I used to be a lot worse; any loud noise would get me into a state, and I’d start panicking and would lose all sense of reality. I’ve helped with the therapy of some vets; it’s very common. I know some people who only have to hear the word ‘gun’ and they start having problems.”

Bucky quirked an eyebrow at him, but stayed silent to see where he was going with this.

“If you ever heard those words again, then presumably you’d slip back into your brainwashed stayed. Technically I’d call them trigger words: and you know there are ways to combat them. I don’t know if it would be effective in your case though, but I don’t see why it wouldn’t. Just like explosions trigger me, the words trigger you.”

Bucky nodded, mostly in agreement because he really did live in fear of hearing those words and losing his free will.

“Do you think you could tell me a few of the words?”

“In English. They only work in Russian, but I can say them in English. Some of them are numbers and the rest are like ‘homecoming’ or ‘rusted.’ They’re impossible to guess at.”

“Well, that’s not so hard. You just have to give the words a context: if the words carry a meaning that has nothing to do with your brainwashing they become completely new words. And if the translated version of the words can’t hurt you, then I’d try and translate them in my head if I heard them. Does that make sense?”

And he considered it. Whenever they’d been said to him, he’d known why they were being said and had just tried not listening. Actively thinking around the issue sounded… it sounded like a possible solution. It seemed like such an obvious thought process he was cursing himself for not figuring out alone – but the fact that Sam had figured it out for him meant he got to thank Sam.

“Yeah. Yeah, that… that helps. Thanks.”

Sam smiled and burrowed down next to him, turning his focus back to the action packed life of a different brainwashed assassin, “your welcome, Buck. Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay,I have lessons tomorrow. Night x


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for ur heart

Bucky emerged from the bathroom well past eleven in the morning in a very casual t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. He had a large pair of scissors in one hand and a troubled expression on his face that caught Sam’s interest immediately.

“I’m meeting with the Pakhan tomorrow and I need to cut my hair.”

“Okay.” Sam was struggling to see the issue there, actually struggling to see why his hair needed cutting at all. He liked Bucky in a ponytail, but maybe it wasn’t eight for the occasion somehow.

“My hair needs to be short when I meet him because it is more practical.”

“Alright. What’s the problem?”

“I can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Hydra made me cut my hair for the same reason. Growing it out reminds me they don’t own me anymore. Cutting it back is like I’m giving into someone’s grip on me.”

Reluctant to point out that by cutting his hair for this reason alone he was doing exactly that, Sam searched in his head for words of advice. He found something else.

“Do you want me to do it?”

Bucky nodded and turned toward the bathroom, disappearing before Sam was even stood up. When he did reach the bathroom his eyes caught the sight of the mirror frame again, and the dented brickwork and briefly he wondered why Bucky hadn’t replaced the glass. Below the missing mirror, laid out by the sink was a clipper Bucky hadn’t even plugged in. He sat in the chair he had prepared and tensed his shoulders and Sam got closer to his hair.

“Remember when you said you trusted me to fix your arm?”

Be earned a small nod from Bucky who still looked terrified.

“Trust me now. Close your eyes and it’ll be over in moments.”

He’d cut hair before. He’d been cutting his own hair since he was a teenager. He’d cut his friends’ hair in the army. He’d even cut Clint’s hair and trimmed Lucky down for the summer. He ran his fingers through Bucky’s chocolate locks, finding them to be freshly washed and silky against his skin. He saw Bucky’s eyes shut and pulled the hair into a ponytail. One cut and the bulk of it was gone.

Bucky kept his eyes closed, but he flinched as the clipper came on, gripping the plastic chair hard enough to split it. Chunks of hair fell away as Sam sculpted a shape, leaving the top a little longer than the sides. With the weight of his hair gone it curled slightly, and Sam ran his fingers through it to encourage the volume of it.

“I’m done, you can open your eyes now.”

With his face no longer hidden, his blue-grey eyes sparkled in the fluorescent light. He looked truly handsome: not that he hadn’t before, it had just been harder to notice under the ruggedness.

“Do you want me to shave your stubble too?”

He didn’t know why he even asked, it was such a weirdly intimate thing to propose, but Bucky nodded and he set to work; sat on the edge of the sink and angling Bucky’s chin to the light. Clean shaven Bucky was years younger than the other Bucky, his face still soft and full. It was almost like there was a whole different person in front of Sam; like Bucky had been replaced by Calvin Klein model.

Sam slid off the counter at the same time Bucky stood, and suddenly they were chest to chest in the tiny bathroom. Sam could feel Bucky breathing; he could see his individual eyelashes and a small scar on his plump lips.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Neither of them moved a muscle, surprisingly finding the lack of personal space very comfortable. It felt like they’d be frozen like that forever when Bucky quite suddenly moved, wrapping his arms tightly around Sam and burying his face in his shoulder. Sam slid his arms around Bucky too, giving him a gentle squeeze for lack of words.

“I love you Sam.”

Even despite their embrace and everything that had gone spoken and unspoken between them, Sam hadn’t expected to hear him say that. The worst of it all was he didn’t know why he hadn’t seen it coming, because before he realised it he was breathing out “I love you too.”

It suddenly all clicked it Sam’s head. The idea that there was someone out there who’d want to love him without needing to shag him or kiss him or touch him in ways he wouldn’t ever enjoy. Before that promise of a human he could call his life partner seemed impossible, and now his arms were full of a man he really did love no matter who he’d killed and who he worked for. Love, even if there was no romance behind it, was blind.

And in Bucky’s mind alarm bells were ringing and shouting at him not to have relations with anyone, and that black people couldn’t be trusted and that loving men was wrong. And he couldn’t care at all about any of that, because the flickering flame of hope inside him that not Hydra nor the Bratva had managed to dampen was burning brightly because he belonged in Sam’s arms and Sam belonged in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I want what they have. I'm just writing my dreams at this point...
> 
> Still tidying my room but I now have space to move the junk on the floor into the cabinets and shelves under my bed. I'll upload at least another chapter today but for now I need to move Sid into a lighter area or the plant I will be putting in his tank soon won't grow. 
> 
> Imma take this opportunity, seeing as this is such a happy chapter, to thank everyone who has left kudos, commented, or book marked. I love you all and you guys make writing this stuff so much more rewarding which is good for my soul. You've still got plenty left to read, and if you guys are up for it at the end of this I'll get to work on the sequel I've half planned. Okie dokie; happy reading :)


	29. Chapter 29

Bucky was sat next to Sam on the edge of his bed, absently running his hands through his hair, feeling the new cut over and over again. Sam was sat cross legged, watching Bucky intently, waiting for him to finish the half-asked question that hovered between them (‘are we… are we…’).

And Sam felt certain he was coming to grips with the idea that they were (a thing, a pairing, a couple, dating, soul mates, whatever) but Bucky had to get there on his own. And when he did, Sam was quite ready to say ‘yes,’ because they were. He’d known it, or a part of him had, since they met in the coffee shop. He’d known it when Bucky had dragged him to a church with half a concussion, he’d known it when he’d (almost, kind of, sorta) joined the Bratva, and he’d known it every time he’d told Bucky to raise his game and he actually had done. Tenfold.

It takes someone who really cares to make that kind of an effort. Sam was sure Bucky really cared.

“Are we together?”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“That I love you and you love me back. That we make an effort to create a relationship that benefits us both and is built on love and trust and commitment.”

“Is that it?”

“That’s it.”

Years of his Pakhan suggesting marrying pretty Italian women to strengthen the alliance between the Bratva and the Mafia were swept aside; nights when he tried to imagine enjoying being with a woman, then being with a man, then just enjoying sexual pleasures or just kissing. Some part of him nagged that he wanted all those things from Sam, but imagining just trying to do that was… repulsive. He liked the trust and the love. He was good at loyalty and he’d be good at love just for Sam.

Sam.

Sam.

“You know I’m not allowed to tell you that I love you.”

“Yeah I know. Nat told me the Bratva weren’t keen on queers.”

“She’s one to talk.”

Sam wasn’t sure what to make of the comment, but he moved forward with the conversation, “we can keep this a secret. It’s not wrong unless they know.”

“You’re not scared?”

“No.” His voice came out quietly, husky. But it wasn’t a lie. He didn’t lie to Bucky.

“I am.”

An internationally feared man admitting he was scared of something was a big deal to Sam; probably to anyone but Sam was the one he was admitting it to. He seemed to be scared of many things, but this would be the first time Sam had heard him say it so bluntly.

“I’m scared that if they find out then I’ll lose you. I’ll lose you in some awful way. I’ll be alone and your screams will be the only thing left to keep me company.”

Sam’s fingers linked with Bucky’s, giving his hand a comforting squeeze, “lighten up Buck; we’re going to be okay. They won’t find out.” He paused for a beat, letting his promises sink in before he spoke again, “can I kiss you? I mean, on your cheek or something, not on your lips.”

Bucky nodded and immediately felt Sam gently plant a kiss on his cheek and let his head fall against his shoulder, still holding his hand. Sam was a magician, and his touch made all his anxieties and pains vanish from sight. Life hurt less with Sam so close.

Bucky fell back on the bed and Sam fell with him, using his chest as a pillow and his steady breaths to lull him into something akin to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing this fluffy shut ugh
> 
> And not to sound like a sad OAP but I found fifty quid in my room and I'm near to tears because I can finally pay my phone bill. For anyone young out there who doesn't have bills to pay, trust me this is exciting. I've been in debt for months.


	30. Chapter 30

Eventually they did return to their work, avoiding each other’s gaze to keep up the appearance that nothing had happened in the slightest. Sam tried not to think about his hands in Bucky’s hair when Nat complimented the new look, and Bucky tried not to feel grossly possessive when Nat made Sam laugh. Now they’d broken the final barrier between them their emotions felt a lot more raw.

Sam eventually left his desk and showered, changing out of the silk shirt and suit pants in favour of more comfortable nightwear. He’d almost climbed into bed when Bucky appeared in his door, arms crossed and bags under his eyes.

“Do you want to sleep in my bed?”

Obviously he wanted to.

Sam’s hand was over Bucky’s, his thumb lightly rubbing back and forth over the expanse of the back of his hand. Bucky had his metal arm thrown over Sam, and even if Bucky couldn’t feel it, the weight of it was grounding for Sam and a solid reminder that he was loved. Their legs were a mess under the quilt, but none of it mattered. Bucky had locked Sam’s door and a heavy chest of drawers blocked their door from being opened. They could be entangled for as long as they liked, be as close as the wanted to be: no one would see them and the moment was theirs and theirs alone. Bucky kissed Sam’s forehead and whispered ‘goodnight’ to him with his eyes already closed and his breath already evening out. If this was all love was, then Bucky decided the love was good and he’d never get enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ew college.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence/gore warning.

When Sam had been abroad, fighting the Taliban in dusty villages of terrified citizens, he’d been part of a rescue mission to retrieve several prisoners of war. He couldn’t remember every mission he’d been on, every man he’d gunned down, or every person he’d saved, but he could remember every single one of those prisoners. They’d been at the mercy of their captors’ hands for nearly seven months; twenty four men battered and bloody from unimaginable torture. Their families back home has no idea of what it was like for them, caged and alone. So alone.

Sam’s jaw still ached from the fist that had hit it hours ago. The cut there had scabbed over but the skin was still tender and swollen. He found it hard to breathe, and some prodding around the bottom of his ribcage told him that a few of his ribs were probably cracked. His knees still stung from being dragged across the concrete floor to the cell, an event he was only sure happened because his skin and blood made a path from the cell door to the edge of the room. He could still feel the steel cap boot buried in his stomach, and he couldn’t open one eye without causing some serious pain. The pain was not good, up there with the bullet he’d taken to the leg, but bearable for the time being. What was eating away at him was the silence.

Aside from his own ragged, uneven breaths, the room was eerily quiet. The air was thick with an overly sweet smelling dust, and although it was unfamiliar to him he reckoned his kidnappers had him inside a barn and that the cloying smell was some kind of crop, rotting from the damp. There was a human shaped lump in the makeshift cell opposite him, its arms chained to a rotting pipe that ran along the back wall, but they were long dead. Even so, rats hadn’t eaten away at the bones, and the body seemed to be decomposing slowly by itself, turning the air between the corpse and Sam foul.

There was one good thing about the stale crop and the cadaver thick with rot in the room with him: this wasn’t anything to do with the Bratva. From what he’d seen of it, the Bratva valued professionalism above all. They wouldn’t leave a mess in their cells, and their cells wouldn’t be iron posts welded to the metal grid floor with gates that only didn’t swing open because of the heavy chains wrapped around them, deep orange with rust. Bucky’s Pakhan hadn’t ordered this.

Maybe Bucky would even come for him.

He reflected on the night before, the two of them sharing a bed. Everything had seemed so calm between them, and for the first time since the café had been blown to pieces he’d felt… unlonely was the only way he could phrase it. Did Bucky value him enough to come back for him? He swallowed, realising that if Bucky had been taken, he wouldn’t have thought twice about getting him back. He’d fallen for Bucky and he’d fallen for him hard. He wondered what time it was; if Bucky had returned to his office to discover Sam missing. Would he think he’d just left? Just abandoned Bucky after lulling him into a false sense of security? Or maybe there was blood on the bed from his short-lived struggle with his captors, and Bucky thought he was dead.

Now he remembered talking to the prisoners of war after the rescue, how they were sure no one would come back for them. One said he gave up hope after a week, another after just hours. A woman who’d almost escaped said she gave up wishing for a rescue team to arrive once the date had passed that she was supposed to return home: her young daughter would know by then she might never see her mum again. Just how long could he hope for? Hoping seemed like a dangerous way to spend his time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey kids: if U live in Britain and ur over 18 then U should be voting today in the EU referendum. Ur vote does matter and it will make a difference. If ur younger than 18 encourage ur older relatives to use their vote. This is decision could be life changing for U, so please vote. I'm voting to remain in the UK today, but no matter what your opinion use ur vote.
> 
> For everyone outside the UK, U should also vote when U have elections. Just sayin. Especially if your a woman or afab because there was a time in history when you wouldn't have had a say and women suffered fighting for your right to vote. Voting is important, whether you believe in your country's political system or not.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence warning

Bucky’s metal fingers sunk into the skin and muscle on the back of guard’s neck and yanked him through the door of his office. This guard had never been inside the room he had diligently guarded for the last two years of his life, but it was difficult to enjoy the tour when he was screaming in pain. The door to Bucky’s room was open, but he didn’t realise that until he’d been dragged into it and thrown to the floor, his skull cracking as it hit the foot of the bed.

“If no one has been in here since I left, how the fuck did that happen?!”

Catching his breath and staggering to his feet, leaning heavily on the bed post for support, his eyes followed the direction Bucky was pointing in. On the pale wall above the bed was a red circle, and in it a skull above six tentacles, neatly curled beneath it: the mark of Hydra. He gaped, unable to believe what he was seeing, and unable to voice his thoughts due to an incredibly sore throat.

“Well Nikolai? Can you explain that?”

Not so long ago he’d stood outside the office, listening to the sounds of Bucky slaughtering traitors of the Bratva. He remembered talking to the others later about the whole affair, how Bucky had been so calm and controlled despite calling the traitors the most unmentionable things, as he ruined them with forms of torture most hadn’t even seen before. He was very cold, very shut off. That had been terrifying, and this louder, physical Bucky that was filled with uncontrollable rage was most definitely worse. That would be his final thought for a week as the silver fist slammed into his temple and knocked him out cold.

The thud of Nikolai’s body was followed by Nat storming into his room, and she shouted something at him along the lines of ‘what the fuck did you do that for?!’ but he couldn’t hear her. All that he could hear was hot blood pounding in his ears, and the word ‘Sam’ over and over again. He took a deep breath, remembered that if Nat thought he’d gone into what they called ‘Winter Soldier mode’ then she was allowed to execute him on sight, and found enough calm to speak to her and express the questions he needed answering.

“I need to know how they found out about Sam. I need to know how they got in here and why they took him. Ask every single person in this building, right down to the cleaners and cooks, if they heard or saw anything. I need the security camera footage checked, I need people checking every inch of the building for signs of a break in. And I need something, anything at all, on where they’re keeping Sam.”

“Okay…” She was being cautious and Bucky knew it; he could read it in her defensive body language and her careful tone. She had every right to be – who else was in the room to get punched into oblivion next time he thrashed out? “I’ve got people taking statements, I’ve got people checking every window and door into this place, and we’re watching the footage now. Our priority is to secure the perimeter and make sure nothing important has been taken.”

“Sam’s been taken.”

“James, Sam was a nice guy and all, but there is a chance he’s to blame for this and either way he isn’t important to the Bratva-“

“He’s important to me!” His body sagged, as if shouting that had drained him of energy. He sat on the edge of the bed, his feet nudging at Nikolai’s motionless body. “He’s important to me.”

Nat slowly shut the door and joined him on the bed, staying a good distance away from him out of respect, “James, you can’t let your feelings for him come into this. It’s just too dangerous.”

“I cannot just abandon him Nat.”

“You know, I noticed he didn’t sleep in his bed last night: the sheets haven’t been touched. You didn’t-“

“No. Of course I didn’t.”

She sighed, wondering how Bucky thought she’d know whether they’d screwed or not, “don’t get defensive with me, I’m trying to help. It’s safe to assume they’ll use him to blackmail you, so it’s likely that unless they’ve left any clues here we won’t know anything about where he is until they make contact.”

“How did they know-“

“It was damn obvious James. I’ve done my best to cover for you, but it hasn’t been easy. I’m seriously surprised that the Pakhan had very little to say on the subject because I was sure one of his spies would have said something.”

He swallowed, not attempting to answer.

“Moving on, this is Hydra: they’re impatient, messy, power-hungry brats. They’ve got Sam, and they’re probably keeping him somewhere not so far away. When they take hostages they usually don’t do video contact or phone calls: they’ll send a courier to contact us in some way.”

He knew this. He knew Hydra better than anyone. He knew that the courier would be at their door before dark, and that they weren’t worth interrogating because the package would have changed hands so many times by that point they wouldn’t know a thing about what it meant. He knew that they’d want himself in exchange for Sam’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys have any recommendations for house plants I should get for my room, I'm open to suggestions.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence/gore warning

The courier arrived: a young, lanky boy in a red polo shirt and jeans. He’d arrived on a motorcycle that spluttered and coughed instead of roaring, and he wasn’t carrying a single weapon. Bucky personally checked his mouth for hidden poison: they couldn’t have him dead if he was their only hope of sending a message back. He handed over a black sling bag, and Bucky searched it thoroughly: empty but for a single brown envelope, untampered with and addressed to ‘Winter Soldier’ in sickeningly familiar handwriting. Bucky sat at his desk and opened the envelope with a knife, then let the contents spill on the dark wood surface.

There were a set of Polaroids in their own little pouch, and methodically Bucky worked his way through the pile. The first three were taken from a distance. They showed several badly put together cells, but as far as he could make out only two of them were occupied. The fourth was taken outside the cell Sam was in. He wasn’t looking at the camera. The fifth was inside the cell, and the following photographs detailed his injuries; bloodied knees, a black eye, a badly split lip, and large, tender looking bruises spotted all over his body, many of them encircling broken skin. The hands tugging him this way and that to get the pictures just right looked rough and Bucky could feel the way their fingers dug into Sam’s flesh.

He gagged at the following pictures, blurred but obviously depicting a few of Hydra’s thugs mercilessly kicking Sam, their feet hitting his head and torso mostly. His body hadn’t felt pain properly in decades, but he could feel every kick and punch they landed as if it was him lying wounded in a dark cell and not Sam. He shuddered, wishing that torture on anyone but Sam; not his Sam.

One final photo of Sam lying unconscious at the feet of his attackers, bloodied and uncomfortably slumped on the concrete floor. Bucky could see specks of blood dripping slowly down the wall behind him, and in the foreground lay a daily newspaper as proof. A slip of paper, the only other thing in the envelope, gave him the address and the price for Sam’s life in hand written German. He didn’t need the address, because he’d spent a month being reprimanded there for going rogue on a mission, and the author needn’t have signed the note because he would recognise the script anywhere: Zola.

He shot the courier in the head, then lay the smoking gun on the desk.

“I’m leaving the Bratva.”

Nat nodded.

“You can have my title if you want it, but I’ve been doing this too long. I’m gonna get Sam back and I’ll take him and that friend of his somewhere safe.”

“What do you need?”

“A jet. Papers.”

“What are your names?”

“Buchanan Rogers, Samuel Rogers, Clinton Banner. And Lucky.”

“You’re taking the dog?”

“Sam and Clint love that dog.”

Nat would have laughed if it weren’t for the pain on Bucky’s face as his eyes avoided the pictures scattered over his desk.

“When do you need this by?”

He got to his feet, moving to his room and sliding into the body armour hanging on the back of the door, “a couple of hours? Have the plane ready with Clint and Lucky in it.”

“So I get Sharon back?”

“Yes, you get Sharon back.” He considered the chest of weapons, but only picked up on knife before slamming the lid shut for the first time since he’d joined the Bratva.

“You sure you can do this alone? I’ll happily go with you-“

“No, I’m giving you time to sort everything out.”

She followed him out of the office and down the stairs, not once looking up from her phone. In the garage was a chunky silver motorbike, and Bucky swung a leg over it and slid into the seat.

“Nat… After this, as far as anyone is concerned, I’m dead. I died in the hands of Hydra, and Sam died with me. Clint’s dead too: torch his place once he’s out. Torch the pictures and everything in my room but my clothes.”

“I thought you’d say that,” she looked up from her phone and nodded at him in solidarity, “good luck.”

He revved the engine and sped away into the distance, following the winding track to the fork in the road. One way lead into the city, but he turned the other way: into the wilderness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm screaming omg I've almost uploaded an entire multichapter fic and it's not going to lie around for two years unfinished omg.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence warning

The place Sam was being held in was a massive barn in the middle of a wood. He hadn’t a clue how the farm had come to be disused, but it was. The farm house was built out of stone and had several large fireplaces within it, so when Hydra were at the farm they were there. The barn was the only other building that hadn’t collapsed. It had originally been built to shelter cattle in the winter months, and it had a second floor in which hay and straw was stored. His memory of the place came flooding back to him every time he caught the sickly sweet scent of rotting hay, which was about all you could smell within a mile radius of the barn.

When he got off his bike and started wheeling it closer so no one would hear the engine, he could smell the barn. The woods were too dense to actually see the peeling red and white paint or the timbers that were slick with rot, but the pungent scent of moulding hay was getting stronger with every step he took. Once close enough just to see the barn, he stalked quietly towards the farm house, maybe a few hundred yards from the barn. He could see through the smogged up windows that the fires were lit and the few bare bulbs that swung dangerously low from the ceiling were glowing an orange colour under the dust that had collected in a thick layer around the glass. One car was parked in the thick mud in the remains of a pigsty, but the deep tire tracks next to it told him that someone had left – and was likely to comeback.

He used the parked car to scale to the second floor, although with how little was left of the floor it was difficult to call it that. The windows were rusted beyond repair and opened easily with some gentle tugging, and he dropped into the remains of the bathroom as silently as he could. After a metre or so the tiles faded into thin air and on the floor below him he could see the shattered remains of the loo, sink, and bath tub. He used the beams on the ceiling as monkey bars, taking his time so not to be too loud as he crept up on the room being used.

Now below him was a sofa built from crates and a mattress. The desks and computers behind it were all new and shiny, but clearly some of Hydra’s people felt they needed to make it more cosy. Only one woman was sat on the sofa, and although he hung above for ten or so minutes, no one joined her. Presumably the others were out in the second car, so he pulled out the knife and dropped onto her, the blade going straight through her skull.

He went back to the car and checked the ruined shelter a pig once lived in to find exactly what he suspected he would: petrol. He doused the fire inside and covered the floor, walls, and furniture in the farmhouse in the gasoline, then made a neat trail back out to the pigsty. Only minutes later did headlights appear in the distance. Six men and women clambered out of the car, crates of booze in their arms. The second they crossed the threshold Bucky lit the petrol, the sprinted for the door and bolted it shut. He waited outside the building for the screaming to stop, not wanting anyone to come to their rescue, or to miss their own rescue attempt: nothing of the sort happened, and when he was sure he could smell burning flesh he started toward the barn.

No guards.

He heaved the barn doors open, the wood that had swelled from the rainfall sticking and refusing to move as it should. Someone fired at him as he entered the barn, but he was fast and rolled behind a tractor.

“James Barnes: my very own nuclear warhead. Good of you to come.”

He choked on the scent of the hay, hazy memories coming flooding back to him every time he inhaled.

“You killed all of my little friends presumably? How did they die?”

“Screaming.”

“Ah, good. You haven’t changed at all.”

“I didn’t come here to reminisce Zola: I want Sam.”

Zola fired the shotgun again and laughed. In the reflection of some broken glass on the floor, Bucky could see he was sat outside Sam’s cell on a plastic chair; the kind you see in high school.

“Come and get him then. Just try.”

In the full knowledge that coming any closer was a terrible idea, he walked out from around the tractor and faced Zola, confident at least that he didn’t have any more ammunition in the gun. He started walking towards Zola, knowing exactly what would happen next.

“Zhelaniye, rzhavyy, semnatstat’,rassvet.”

He blinked slowly, taking in a long and slow breath and filtering out the clinging scent of overly sweet hay. _Translate it in your head. The words can’t hurt you give them more meaning, more context._

Longing: wanting, needing, pining. He was pining for Sam, pining for a future with him. Rusted: metal rusts, iron rusts when it reacts with water. Seventeen: just a number between sixteen and eighteen, and numbers cannot cause pain. Daybreak: sunrise, the morning, waking up the morning with Sam still fast asleep in his arms. Sam slumped in his cell covered in blood. Sam, Sam, Sam.

He didn’t remember the knife sliding between Zola’s ribs, but when he looked down that was where it was. He was frozen for a moment over the man that created him, watching blood rise into his mouth and listening to him choking on it before his body sagged and his breathing became more and more laboured. With a heavy sigh he pulled away and approached Sam’s cage.

“Sam?”

No reply. He tore the gate of its hinges and walked into the space, kneeling in front of Sam and tilting his head up as gently as he could. The laboured breathing coming from Sam’s body was enough reassurance for the time being. Sam’s one good eye opened slightly, and he forced a smile onto his torn lips, “Buck…”

He restrained himself from hugging Sam, not wanting to presume his body was in the kind of condition that could take that kind of stress, “yeah I’m here Sam, I’m here. I’m gonna get you out alright? Can you stand?”

He nodded, but Bucky doubted it. He threw Sam’s arm around his neck and all but lifted him into an upright position. Sam let Bucky do all the work, guide him out of the cell and start to head for the exit-

Bucky heard a click and looked over at the source of the noise. In Zola’s hands was a box, his shaking finger on a single switch and a grim smile on his face, “If I can’t have you, my dear Winter Soldier, no one can.”

With the bomb ticking away in Zola’s hands, he was out of options. He scooped Sam off the floor and sprinted for the door, then across the yard to a dry stone wall that had once been vital for keeping sheep penned in. He tossed Sam over the wall and dived after him as a ball of fire erupted from the barn’s centre and wooden wreckage rained down around them, smoking beams and glowing embers fizzling against the damp grass. Bucky wrapped himself around Sam, waiting for the ash to settle before they moved.


	35. Chapter 35

They made it to the plane. Sam had never been in so much pain, but Bucky was helping him into the tiny jet Nat had found them. He lowered him slowly into the seat and strapped him in as comfortably as he could manage, then gently kissed his forehead and jogged back outside. Clint was strapped into the seat next to him, gave him a look of concern and then went back to reading his book, which was actually just a pizza recipe book, and let on hand fall onto Lucky who was also strapped into his seat and somewhat confused about the whole affair, but none the less was delighted to see Sam.

Outside the jet Nat and Sharon stood side by side as Bucky jogged down toward them. He looked between them nervously as Nat pushed a pile of passports and other documents into his hands, “Thanks.”

“Don’t sound so tense; get out of here. You deserve it.”

He tried to bite back a smile, but they both saw it, and before he knew it Nat was hugging him, “James I mean it. It’s now or never and Sam’s waiting for you.”

She let him go, and he let Sharon hug him too, “Clint’s awesome, wherever you’re going it’s gonna be great.”

He nodded, nearly tearful, and thanked them once more before piling himself back into the jet and setting off down the runway. The aircraft bounced slightly as it left the ground and soared above the clouds, and he set the built in GPS system to take them to their new home: Spain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh that's it omg I've finished an entire fic and posted it all.
> 
> Thank you everyone for your lovely comments, kudos, and bookmarks: I love you all for supporting me and encouraging me to post all this.
> 
> So I do have plans for a (somewhat less angsty) sequel that would follow on pretty much from where this finished off. If you guys want a sequel, please comment below and I will make this a series so you can follow it and will be updated when I start posting that. 
> 
> Again, thank you so much. This is my first ever sam/bucky fic and first ever queerplatonic relationship pic, and you guys have made this so much fun. Thank you x
> 
> Edit: There should be a sequel. One day.


End file.
